


Impossible Improbable Truth

by KaraRenee



Category: Labyrinth (1986), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BAMF John, F/F, F/M, Fairy Bites, Fairy Kisses, Fish and Chips, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, How do you thank your Beta - make her a nymph, Jaded Hoggle, Johnlock Roulette, Killed off Mary to cheer up a friend, M/M, Multi, Nymph kisses cure fairy bites, Peaches - Freeform, Pet names awkward but cute, Post Fall, Post Mary, Sexy Tango, Sherlock says Sweetie, Sherlock would rather be in Serbia than a teenage girls room, masked balls, waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock take a case investigating the disappearance of a teenage girl and her toddler half brother.  What they find is an impossible adventure that leads them on a journey of discovery of their sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My amazing Beta inspired me to write this crossover fanfic. It started as a lark. Then it became my obsession for a month. So this is for CH, my friend, my muse, my orange shock blanket.

Chapter 1

It had been seven months since the accident.  

John looked at the calendar on his mobile.

Seven months and three days.

He tossed his phone onto the mattress next to him.

Seven months and three days since Mary and their three month old daughter, Alice, died in a terrorist bombing on the Underground.  Not a plot on Mycroft’s radar.  Not anything New Scotland Yard had any information on prior to it happening.  No intelligence gathered by the Americans to tip off the British government.  Just an isolated case of a young, unemployed  British Muslim who felt disconnected from the country of his birth and chose to ally himself with the Islamic State.  One hundred fifteen perished that day, including the bomber.  Including Mary and Alice Watson.  

John could hear Mrs. Hudson on the floor below.  Since Sherlock moved John back into Baker Street, she had been coming up every day to check on him.  

“How is the poor dear today, Sherlock?”

“Not up yet, Mrs. Hudson.  Well, he hasn’t appeared from his room yet.  John’s been awake for hours, checking his mobile for football scores and I believe he watched a bit of a cricket match.”  Sherlock tilted his head to one side as if listening to the bedroom on the third floor.

John rolled his eyes.

“The poor dear.  Shall I bring him up a cup of tea do you think?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, mock surprise on his face.  “Perish the thought, Mrs. Hudson. You are not our housekeeper.”

She reached for the Times, rolling it and slapping Sherlock gently on the arm.  “I’ll just pop up and check on the dear.”

John stood at the bottom of the stairs looking disheveled.  “I’m alright, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Of course you are, dear.”  She walked over to embrace him.  He gave her a little squeeze before she broke away, wiping her eyes with a tissue she had kept up her sleeve.

John and Sherlock looked at one another and both rolled their eyes.  John placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the door.  “Thank you for checking on me, Mrs. Hudson.”

She nodded and sniffed as she was hurried out the door.

“God that woman…” John started.  Then he grinned.  “It is nice to be mothered a bit.”

“Would you like me to make you a cuppa, John dear?” Sherlock asked in a falsetto.

“Sod off.” John laughed and pushed up his sleeves.  “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Are you going in to the clinic today?” Sherlock called out.

“Nope, not today.”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “Want to come down to New Scotland Yard with me?  Lestrade has a missing persons case he can’t solve and he needs us, John.”

“Oh, did Greg text you?” he pulled two mugs from the cabinet.

“No. He’s been struggling with this case for three days.  He’s just too damned proud to ask for help.  But time is of the essence, John.  We must let him know he needs us.”

John chuckled and shook his head.  “Greg won’t like that.”

“Lestrade be damned.  This case is important.”

“Why is it important?”

“Because the parents emailed us.  They don’t trust the ineptitude of Scotland Yard.”

John put bags in the mugs and leaned against the counter.  “Okay.  Fine.  Tell me about this missing persons case.”

Sherlock straddled the kitchen chair.  His eyes were bright with excitement. “Teenage girl was babysitting her little brother when they both went missing.”

“Was it the parents?  The girl’s boyfriend?”

“No.  Daisy Harris, age fifteen, average student at Preston Manor School.  Mother, a physician,  Doctor Imogene Harris, originally from the Bahamas died when she was five. Father originally from Dover, works as a maths teacher at the school, remarried four years ago. Mister Edwin Baker and his wife Parveen have a sixteen month old son, Tommy.  According to Daisy’s best friend, one Miss Ellie Partiger, Daisy resented having to help take care of her little brother.   She doesn’t care much for her step mother.  Daisy had been reluctant to grow up.  She spent a lot of time reading fairy stories, keeping the toys from her childhood, especially ones her mother had given her.  Lots of fairy and princess dolls, fantasy creatures and things that, according to Ellie, she should have grown out of when they were nine.”

“You got all this from an email from her parents?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“Of course not. You’ve been working on this case for what… two days already?”

Sherlock smiled. “You know me so well, John.”

The kettle whistled.  John poured water into the mugs and placed the mugs on the table. Sherlock pushed a photo across the table. John looked at the image of a teenage girl, dark hair in natural, tight ringlets framing her face.  Her skin was the colour of milky coffee, brown freckles splashed across her cheeks.  She was wearing her school uniform; blue blazer, white blouse and blue tie with red stripes.  

“Pretty girl.  Looks like your average teenager.  Smile doesn’t reach her eyes, though.”

Sherlock pulled the photo back and studied the eyes. “Hmmm… sometimes you do more than point out the obvious, John.”

John rolled his eyes and sat down. “So, unhappy teenage girl choosing to lose herself in fantasy and childhood, resents babysitting her half brother?”

“Both children disappeared from their home.  No signs of forced entry.  Doors locked from the inside.  No windows opened.  Daisy’s room looked like she had been playing with some dolls on her desk while having a book about a goblin king propped open.  Her iPod was repeating a waltz.  Tommy’s nursery was neat, no signs of struggle.  A few stuffed toys on the floor, and his favorite blanket was missing from  his crib.”

He paused to allow John to visualize the scene.

“Okay…” John sipped his tea.

“There were fresh leaves and petals on the nursery room floor.”

“Blown in by an open window?  Tracked in on a shoe?  Collected by an interested toddler?”

“Not crushed.  Not from any tree on the property or in the neighborhood.  The leaves and flowers were from a magnolia tree.”

“But it’s November.  Magnolia trees aren’t in bloom right now.”

A broad grin crept across Sherlock’s face.  “Indeed.  They are not a native species, though I did find a few nurseries that carry them.”

“So Lestrade is stumped.  But you have a theory.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose.

John sipped his tea again.  

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

John breathed out a tiny laugh of derision.  “How improbable are we talking?”

Sherlock grinned again.

“In 1985 a fourteen year old girl was babysitting her half brother while their parents went out for the evening.  The parents came home early to find both children missing, a pile of magnolia petals on the nursery floor. While the parents were meeting with the D.I. in their kitchen, there were footsteps on the second floor. The baby was asleep in his crib, and the girl was asleep in her bed, a book clutched in her hand.”

John leaned forward as if listening more intently.

“In Exeter in 1972 a sixteen year old girl was home with her baby sister.  She resented her parents for waiting so long to have a second child.  She was reading her favorite story aloud to the baby.  We know this because her copy of the book was found on the floor near a pile of blocks.  The girls were found three days later sitting exactly where they had last been suspected of being - baby playing with blocks, her sister sitting cross legged in front of her reading a passage from her book aloud.”

John pressed his lips together in a smirk.  “Okay, I’ll bite. What is the book?  I presume it’s the same book in all three disappearances.”

“Twelve, John.  Twelve disappearances. Twelve teenage girls babysitting significantly younger siblings all reading the same book.  Twelve girls not wanting to grow up, lost in fantasy books and toys, no boyfriends, but all, by the diaries they each kept, longing to be swept away romantically by an older man.”

“Teenage girls with daddy issues?”

“The book,” Sherlock pulled a small red hardbound book without a paper sleeve from his jacket pocket.  There were no marks on the spine.  The title was stamped in gold letters on the front.  

“Labyrinth?” John ran a thumb over the embossed word.  “Never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“It’s a story about a king of goblins who falls in love with a human girl, and instead of simply professing his love for her or seducing her,  he kidnaps her baby brother.  The girl is an ordinary peasant, mother died of some plague or other.  Father remarries and the girl resents it all.  She wants to escape.  So one night she cries out that she wishes a handsome prince would steal her away. In a flurry of mauve petals and leaves, a man in a glittering suit appears and the baby disappears.  He makes a bargain with her, that if she stays with him as his queen, he shall turn the baby into a goblin and she will never have to suffer him again.  If she refuses to be his bride, she must fight her way through a fantastical maze, a labyrinth, all the way to his castle to free the baby.  Of course she has second thoughts, feels guilty about the baby, et cetera, so she refuses to marry the king and has adventures in the labyrinth on her way to save her baby brother.”

“Did you read this book, Sherlock?  It doesn’t sound like something you’d normally read. No treatise on the effects of chlorine on flesh in varying stages of decay or how many millimeters the flesh retracts from nail beds after death.”

“Oh please, John, I wrote those books,” Sherlock said seriously.

Their eyes met across the table and both laughed.

“So how long were each of the girls missing?  A day?  Three days?”

“Three days was the most. For the ones that returned.”

“There were some that were never found?”

“In eighteen ninety two Elizabeth Smith, aged fifteen, and her two year old brother Jack, disappeared. They never returned.  Elizabeth had been reading this book repeatedly for months prior to their disappearance. The police closed the case saying she probably ran off with a boyfriend and killed the baby.  No bodies were ever found.”  Sherlock sipped his now cold tea.  He scowled. John rolled his eyes. He sipped again.  “There was also no evidence of a boyfriend.”

John got up to place his empty mug in the sink.

“In nineteen twelve Amelia Burroughs, aged fourteen, and her one year old sister disappeared, both also never returned.  Amelia’s copy of the book was found with the page marked where the peasant girl in the story cries out to the Goblin King to take the baby.”

John leaned his low back against the sink, crossing his arms over his belly. “And today is day three that Daisy and Tommy have been missing?”

“Yes. We can presume since the parents haven’t texted me to say the children are back, that this may end up like Amelia and Elizabeth.”

John picked up the little red book.  

“Read it, John. Quickly.  Time if of the essence!”  He swung his long legs out of the chair and stalked to the peg to take down his coat.

“Where are you going?”  John waved the book at him.

“I am going to check out Tommy’s nursery and Daisy’s bedroom again for clues.  But you need to read that book, so make yourself a pot of tea and get to it!”  Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf around his neck and in a flurry of dark fabric, flew down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent lots of time re-watching season 3, which my Beta still refuses to finish watching. So perhaps you, gentle reader, will better follow along.

Chapter 2

John held the book in his hands, but was staring off out the window with unfocused eyes.

When Sherlock had died and John was left alone and brokenhearted, he had thought a lot about what Sherlock had meant to him.  They had been flat mates, best friends, and co-workers.  Many people thought they were romantically linked.  Even Mycroft thought they were lovers.  After Sherlock was gone, John spent most of his waking hours pondering why people thought that.  He replayed every moment they had saved one another’s lives.  He reviewed every memory of the way Sherlock looked at him, of the way he felt when Sherlock touched his arm or threw himself across John when getting him out of the way of danger.

For all his protestations of not being gay, John had always felt attracted to the tall, pale, irritating detective.  

Then Mary happened. John was depressed over his friend’s death, and confused over the romantic feelings he had for him.  Mary Morston appeared and John easily transferred his unrequited romantic feelings to her.  Never having explored his sexuality beyond the heteronormative, he thought himself in love with her, and proceeded on the ‘normal’ course of moving in with her and proposing to her.  

And Sherlock returned from the dead.

Not dead.  The man whose face filled John’s brain when he kissed Mary was alive. The man whose soft black curls he wished he was running his fingers through, and not Mary’s flat blond bob, was back in his life.  Filling his brain, filling his nostrils with the scent of his musky deodorant and occasional cigarette, filling his ears with his mournful violin playing and irritatingly superior attitude towards everything.  

“What will you do about Mary now, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft intoned irritatingly as they met for tea in Mycroft’s least favorite cafe.

“We’re getting married, Mycroft.  Invitations were mailed.  You should have received yours by now.”

Mycroft tutted.  “Poor John Watson.  So clueless.  When will you acknowledge that you are in love with Sherlock Holmes?  It’s been painfully obvious to everyone for years.”

“I’m not gay.”

Mycroft glared at John. “Even Mummy wants to know when you’ll come to your senses and make ‘an honest man’ out of her son.”

“But,” John sputtered.  “I’ve never met your parents, and I’m not gay.”

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.  “Labels, John.  Labels don’t mean anything.  Just because you love my baby brother does not make you anything other than who you both already are.”

“If I am in love with your brother, that means I’m gay.” John hissed, trying not to attract the attention of the other patrons in the cafe.

“No, John.  It means,” Mycroft leaned towards him, “that you and my brother will be very lucky and very happy.”  

He lifted his paper tea cup to his lips, pinky up, look of disgust on his face when the paper touched his mouth.  

“Although I do despair of your choice of meeting places. Please be sure to take Sherlock to nicer establishments for your _dates_.” Mycroft picked up his briefcase and umbrella and strode out of the cafe.

Mycroft did not say anything to John again about the topic.  Mycroft did not go to Mary and John’s wedding.  But he did send him a text on the morning of the wedding.

**_All the best. I’d be happier if you were marrying my brother. -MH_ **

After Sherlock shot Magnussen and John thought he would be losing him again, granted to exile this time, his heart broke again. Not even Mary, pregnant at his side, was a comfort to him.  

“So here we are.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s the whole of it. If you’re looking for baby names.”

John chuckled.  “No, we’ve had a scan, we’re pretty sure it’s a girl.”

“Oh,” he smiled slightly. “Okay.”

They looked everywhere but at one another.  John could not bear to look into those eyes for what could be the last time.  This was different, but equally as hard as when Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s. At least this time he could say goodbye.  This time he didn’t have to see him die.

“I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

“No, neither can I.”

John was so torn.  He kept his hands at his sides, struggling not to reach out and touch Sherlock’s sleeve, struggling not to reach his hands up and grab that narrow, pale face and kiss him passionately.

“Where are you going now?”

“Some undercover work in eastern Europe.”

“For how long?”

“Six months my brother estimates.” Sherlock bit his lip. “He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?”

Sherlock kept biting his bottom lip. John looked into his eyes.  He saw fear there.

“Who knows?”

John looked away.  He could not bear to see the fear in his eyes.

“John, there’s something I want to say. Something I meant to say always and I never have. And since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again I might as well say it now.”

They looked at one another.  Would he say it?  John’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears.   _Tell me you love me,_ a voice in his head begged. _Tell me you’ve always wanted me.  Tell me I’ve made a mistake getting married to a woman.  Tell me every time you saved my life you were telling me you are in love with me._

“Sherlock is actually a girls name.”

John laughed.  Sherlock pressed his lips together in a pained smile.  Was he still holding back what he wanted to say?

“It’s not,” John said.

“It was worth a try.”

“We aren’t naming our daughter after you.”

Sherlock extended his hand.  “To the very best of times, John.”

John paused a moment.  Not like St. Bart’s.  He was not able to touch Sherlock before he jumped.  Here, on the tarmac, he was unable to hold him.  The old wound from the loss of Sherlock was being ripped open again.  He stoically shook his hand.  Sherlock turned without another glance and boarded the plane.

He had stood there with Mary, watching the plane take off.  Watching the best part of his life leave him again.

“That’s not possible.  That’s simply not possible,” Mycroft was on his mobile, stepping out of his car, looking towards John and Mary.

“What’s happened?”

**Did you miss me?   Did you miss me? Did you miss me?**

John rubbed his eyes.  Allowing his mind to wander down memory lane wasn’t getting the book read. Sherlock was out working the investigation and John was sitting here, not doing his part.  Pining away for a man who may not love him, who may not be gay anyway.  He did have that brief affair with Janine.  She was the only woman he had ever known Sherlock to be with, even if it was to get closer to Magnussen.  Had Sherlock ever had a boyfriend?  Was living together, sharing the bills, keeping one another alive through terrorists and a not dead Moriarty amounted to a relationship between them?  There was no sexual contact.  No kissing.  But everything else about their life together felt like a marriage.

Although John had never yelled at Mary for keeping heads in the ice box.

When they caught Moriarty again in the horse barn, John was determined to ensure his death.  Sherlock had him in the sights of John’s pistol.  John was shaking with rage.  He couldn’t lose Sherlock again.

“We could have been brilliant, you and me, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty purred, staring down the steel barrel.

“I’m not a criminal, Jim.  We could never have worked together.”  His eyes creased at the edges as he narrowed his sight down the barrel.

“I mean as a couple, Sherlock.  Oh the things I wanted to do to your body.  I would have loved you, made you burn for me the way I have burned for you.”

John reached behind him.  His hand brushed the cold blade of a machete.

“What makes you think I would have let you touch me?”

“I would have loved you better than John Watson.  Your army doctor has never touched you the way I would.  He’s never kissed you the way I would.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “John’s never kissed me.”

“I would have kissed you until your knees gave out and you begged me to get lost inside you.”

Sherlock tipped his head slightly. “Unlikely.  John…”

He never finished his sentence.  The dulled machete blade smacked dully through Moriarty's skull.  John’s primal scream filled the barn, startling the horses in their stalls.  Sherlock jumped back, splattered again with Jim’s blood.  John heaved the blade out of the skull.  Moriarty turned to face his attacker.  John gave no quarter.  He turned the blade and hacked at his neck, crying out half words, guttural cries.  The dull blade making a mess of his neck.

Sherlock stood staring, stunned.  He watched John hack into Moriarty’s neck, blood spurting and gushing down the dying body, covering the hay, spraying over him and John. He shook himself and walked up to John, confidently pinning his arm to his side.

“John… John… let it go.” He forced his hand to release the blade.  It fell to the floor with a dull thud.

“You bastard!  You son of a … never!  Never, not my… my…”  John looked up, body relaxing once he saw the look in Sherlock’s eyes.  “Sherlock…” John buried his face in his jacket, sobbing.  

He smoothed one hand over the greying blonde hair.  John’s body shook with sobs.  Sherlock held him more tightly.  He pressed his lips to his hair. “Shhhh… it’s over John. It’s okay now.  He’s gone.”

To be sure, Sherlock put a bullet into the head and another in the heart.

John was sure, in the moment, that Sherlock had kissed his head while soothing him.  Hours later, once he was showered and was home, laying next to his heavily pregnant wife, he replayed the events in his mind. Had he imagined the tender press of lips to his head?  Was he reading too much into the way Sherlock held him?  In the rush of adrenaline, he had mistaken the battle drive for something else?  He ignored the twinge in his cock, the arousal of being held so tightly to Sherlock’s chest.  

John rubbed his palms into his eyes, rolled over and pulled Mary to him.  He nuzzled his face in her sleeping shoulder and willed himself not to wish it was Sherlock in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the impossible starts to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Let me guess,” Sherlock’s voice broke the spell. “This is not a gift for an ordinary doctor who takes care of a high functioning sociopath.” He rolled his eyes.

Chapter 3

John was still in his reverie when Sherlock returned, cheeks flush from the cold November air and the rush of adrenaline from being on a case.

“The children have not returned yet, John. I have an idea.  Have you read…”

Sherlock paused part way through unwrapping his scarf.  He stood still, head perfectly poised, eyes scanning the slumped, depressed figure in the chair.  Thumb resting between pages, perhaps 20 pages into the story, book closed; sadness around the eyes - the melancholy look he gets when he thinks about Mary; tea pot at room temperature, cup full and untouched.

“John?”

He snapped to attention, spine straightened and eyes alert.  He looked embarrassed for a moment.

“Sorry, Sherlock.  I…” he opened the book to free his thumb, now slightly sore.  He placed the book open on its spine on the tea tray.  “I… my mind must have wandered.  This isn’t easy for me right now.”

“John, I need you on this.  I need your mundane mind to assist me with this.  This case could be more obscure… fantastical… than anything we’ve encountered before.”

“My mundane mind?”  John pursed his lips and moved his jaw around, fighting the words filling his brain.

“You know how I rely on your mediocrity in these things.”  He could see his flat mate steaming.  The thrill of his anger filled Sherlock’s gut. Angry John was Action John, and Action John was not melancholy.  Since the night Moriarty was killed, Sherlock had been fighting his urges to comfort John with soft words and embraces.  Since Mary and Alice died and Sherlock and Mycroft moved John and his things back to Baker Street, without asking John, he struggled with the urge to slide into his bed and hold him through his nightmares. But this - the angry soldier doctor with the clever mind for seeing the human details that Sherlock could not be bothered with - this is what gave Sherlock an electric feeling akin to a first kiss.

“You are the world’s most brilliant detective and you want me to read a teen fantasy fic?”  He kept moving his facial muscles as if he was trying to wrap his mouth around the words wanting to spill from his mouth.  “Fine.  Just… FINE.”

He picked up the book to the page his thumb had been sitting in.  

“What am I supposed to get out of this, Sherlock?  Hmmmm?  A young girl fantasizes about a man who will take her away from her boring life.  She hates taking care of a baby.  I’ve just LOST my baby, Sherlock!  This is probably the most callous thing you could have done to me.”

Sherlock’s jaw slackened, his silver blue eyes widened.

“John, I…”

“No.  Oh no.  Let me see here… “She stood in front of the baby she so detested.  He cried and he whined.  He demanded her attention.  She was torn between her instinct to comfort him, and the desire to be a million miles away from him.  In her mind, the handsome Goblin King was waiting for her.  He was waiting for her to cry out the spell that would make the baby a goblin, and her his queen. She picked up the baby and held him aloft.  She cried out “Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be, take this child of mine far away from me!”” THAT,” John spat, “Is utter rubbish writing.  When was this crap published?”

“I haven’t been able to find an original publication date, but tha…”

“You know,” John stood, using the book in his hand to point at Sherlock.  “I’ve had enough.  You changed my life for the better, then you disappeared on me for two years without a word, then suddenly reappeared when I thought I had my life sorted out. I thought I was a man who only liked women, who wanted to be married and have a family.   But then you reappeared from God knows where…”

“I told you, I was in Serbia…”

John gave him the Shush I’m Talking look.

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together.

“And … and I was confused again. You were the most important person in my life - ever,” John broke eye contact for a moment and breathed. “And on my wedding day I started to wish it was you next to me.”

“I was, John.  I was your best man.”  

He scowled.  “Alone, Sherlock.  Just you next to me.  Not Mary. She filled the void in my life that you left.  But when you returned I felt like I had been cheating on you with her.  My whole heteronormative view on the world was turned upside down.   All because of you. I was grateful when you hooked up with Janine.  Slightly heartbroken.  Felt betrayed.  But relieved because I thought maybe, just maybe you were straight and I got it all wrong.  All the signals.  Your vow at the reception.  Maybe we were just best mates.”

Sherlock hung his head, a blush of shame creeping into his angular cheeks.  

“And then after Mary and Alice died, I was lost.  You swept in and literally picked me up and brought me home.  You never said a word. You and Mycroft appeared like personified silence and just packed me up and moved me back here to Baker Street.  I know you can hear me when I have nightmares.  I try not to scream,  or to cry. Sometimes I can’t stop.  And sometimes I can’t stop because I want you to hold me and kiss my head like you did the night we killed Moriarty.  And that longing hurts more than losing Mary and the baby.”  John paused and rubbed his free hand over his head.  “Not being in your arms hurts more than my wife dying.”

“We wouldn’t have had bridesmaids in lilac.”

John did a double take.  “What?”

He sighed.  “I wouldn’t have chosen lilac.  Mrs. Hudson and Molly would have been our bridesmaids and I would have put them in sky blue to match your eyes.”

“WHAT?  No… no… not now.  Not when I’m this angry at you, Sherlock.”

“Even if it’s true?” His silvery eyes look at John through dark lashes.  Were those tears shimmering along his bottom lids?

“You are so aggravating!  John threw up his hands, book still held between the fingers of his left.  He looked at the book for a moment, pointed it again at Sherlock.

“You know, I wish the goblins would come and take you away.” He glared at him.  “Right now.”

The sitting room windows blew open.  The drapes, caught in the gust, pushed papers and books and a laptop onto the floor.  One drape slapped the tea tray and pushed it over.  Tea soaked into the rug, broken bits of china, the pattern of the British Isles and the prevailing winds shattered. A barn owl swooped in.  A whirlwind of leaves - some dried, some green, and some mauve petals, filled the room.  John and Sherlock each put up and arm to shield their eyes.  With his free arm, Sherlock pulled John to him, arm around his waist.

When the wind died down, they lowered their arms.  Standing in front of the fireplace was a man in a glittering tail coat.  His blonde hair was long and teased.  His eyebrows were impossibly arched and accented by shimmering eyeshadow.  His black silk shirt was open, exposing his hairless chest.  A large pendant shaped like a triangle with curved tails lay against his bare skin. His trousers looked like spandex riding breeches, but skin tight.  John could make out every curve of muscle - quads and …

“Sherlock…”

“Keep calm, John.”  He pulled John closer to his  hip.

“What’s with those trousers?”

Sherlock loosened his grip a moment.  “An owl transforms into a man in our sitting room and you want to talk about his taste in trousers?”

The stranger smirked, placing his fists on his hips.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” asked Sherlock. “You’re Jareth, the Goblin King.”

He nodded his head, smirk spreading slightly across his pale lips.

“Goblin… You mean from _the book_?” John was beginning to wield the little red book like a weapon.

“Don’t panic, John.”

“Too late!”

Sherlock pulled John tighter to him.

“It’s probably a joint hallucination.  Caused by someone slipping lysergic acid diethylamide into our tea, or an airborne extract of psilocybin piped into the flat.”

“Do you see what I see? Is there a man with eighties rock star hair and very tight trousers standing in front of our fireplace?”  he panic whispered.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock stepped sideways, trying to put himself between John and the stranger.  “Bring back Daisy and Tommy.”

“I already have. Daisy was much like so many of the others,” his voice was smooth. “She was a young girl, unsure of what she really wanted out of life.  Clearly not what I could offer her. She won her brother back and they are safely home again.”

“What is it you offered her?” John asked.

The Goblin King smirked again, light in his eyes dancing as he drank in John with his gaze.  “A chance for a life far away from the mundane. A chance to be whatever and whomever she chose, whenever she wanted.  No rules.  No judgements.  All she had to do was acquiesce to my demands and she could have had anything she wanted.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Sherlock, are you playing along with this insanity?”

“Hallucination, John.  And yes.  This is clearly a manifestation of our suppressed emotional and sexual desires, exacerbated by the story book and the case.  If we fight it, we may go insane.  Just play along and everything will be fine. I promise.”

“I have come to make Doctor Watson an offer.”

“He is not currently open to any… offers,” the last word left a bad taste in Sherlock’s mouth.

“Hello, I’m right here!  I can say if I’m open to offers or not.”

Jareth’s smirk blossomed into a lascivious smile.  He raised his right hands, black gloved fingertips pointed upwards.  “Doctor Watson… John… I’ve brought you a gift.” A crystal ball appeared on his fingertips.

“What is it?”

The Goblin King rolled the crystal from palm to back of his hand, mesmerizing them.  

“It’s a crystal.  Nothing more. But, if you turn it this way and look into it,” he paused the wave of his hand, balancing the ball on the back of his hand, “it will show you your dreams.”

John stretched his neck to peer inside.  An image flashed in the bauble - two men, him and Sherlock, locked in a lover’s kiss.

Jareth moved his hand again, balancing the ball in palm.  The image shifted to show John and the Goblin King in fancy dress, carefully undressing one another in the moonlight.

“Let me guess,” Sherlock’s voice broke the spell.  “This is not a gift for an ordinary doctor who takes care of a high functioning sociopath.”  He rolled his eyes.

“This joint hallucination is all too real, Sherlock.”

“Focus, John, and play along.”

John shrugged and squared his shoulders.

"Seriously? What's up with those pants?" John stated incredulously.

“ _That_ is what you are focusing on?” Sherlock hissed.

Jareth sneered and stepped towards him, boot heels clicking on the floor. "Why are you staring at them?" His green eyes flashed, John could see his reflection in a permanently dilated pupil. He gulped.

Jareth ran a long, gloved finger over John's jumper, tracing the geometric pattern. "What _are_ you wearing?"

Sherlock was torn. He grinned at the snide remark about John's jumper. Yet a feeling of possessiveness swept through him and settled in his stomach like a lead weight as he watched Jareth touch John.

"John has," he swallowed, "the most charming taste in woolen jumpers."  The adjective nearly choked him.

John's body language snapped from fear at Jareth's touch to shock at Sherlock's comment.

"Charming?"

"Oh," his impossibly arched eyebrows raised a bit further. "Does he belong to you?" Jareth fisted his gloved hand in the brightly patterned knit, tugging John towards him as he glared at Sherlock

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, hoping to match the drama of this impossible man's. "Yes he does."

John sputtered " _I_ do NOT belong to anyone! This is ridiculous. I'm not even _gay_."

“Our most recent conversation would lead one to believe the contrary.”

“Shut up.”

Jareth released his grip on John's sweater as he turned to face the detective.

"Sherlock, why are we continuing to playing along with this psychopath?"

John smoothed the front of his jumper

"We must see the effects through to the end. Don't worry, John. I'll protect you." He never took his eyes off the Goblin King.

"You think this isn’t real?" sneered Jareth

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "So," he began to pace. "In this hallucination, John is my partner, and you may not take him from me."

"Partner?" Jareth asked.

"PARTNER?" John demanded

"Boyfriend.  Lover," he waved his gloved hand in the air. "Whatever term you like.” He paused, tilted his head slightly as he searched for a word. “ Sweetie."

"Oh, this has gone _too_ far!" John shouted

Sherlock stalked up to him, cupped his face in his hands, and snogged him. John resisted, refusing to open his mouth.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing my lover before this," he waved his hand again, “Goblin King. Marking you as mine. Clearly we need to play by the rules of this fantastical hallucination. Sweetie." He smiled, pleased at his choice of endearment.

John rolled his eyes.

“Darling?”

“No.” John pointed a finger at Sherlock’s nose.  “No sweetie. No darling.  I am _not_ your boyfriend.”

Sherlock bent his head and looked at John through his dark lashes.  “I saw what you saw in the crystal. The best way through this drug induced fantasy is to play along until I figure out what we were slipped and how.  If we fight it, our bodies may not respond well.  John, we must stick together and work out who did this to us and why.”  He stroked John’s cheek with his thumb.  “Since none of this is real, we can let go of our concepts of reality.”

“Is that what you did when you used to get high on heroin?”  John was relaxing in Sherlock’s embrace, leaning slightly into his caressing thumb.

“No, John.  This isn’t like heroin.  This is more vivid.  This feels more real. But it’s not.”  He cupped John’s chin with the crook of his index finger.  “Since it’s not real and we need to stick together,” he tilted his head, “we are going to be lovers.  It’s the only logical thing to do here.”  His breath was hot on John’s lips.

“I don’t…” Sherlock took advantage of John’s soft, open mouth and slipped his tongue in.  John tasted of jam on toast and Earl Grey.

Sherlock pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together, feeling John’s unexpected arousal arise between them.  John’s hands went from closed fists at his side, to getting lost in the pile of curls on Sherlock’s head.  

“Enough!” Jareth demanded.

Sherlock released John’s mouth, but did not relax his grip on his waist. John was weak-kneed and was grateful for the support of his flat mate’s arms.

“We will play your little game, Goblin King,” Sherlock spat.  “But John Watson is mine.”

“Yes, sweetie,” John whimpered.

The Goblin King tilted his head to the side, wisps of blonde hair resting on his pale cheek.  

“You love him.”  He looked into John’s eyes.

“I… what?”  John stepped out of Sherlock’s arms, snapping back to himself.  “No. I’m not gay.  Why do people presume we’re a couple?”

“I love you, John.” Sherlock’s husky voice made both men stare at him.

“What is it about him?”  Jareth walked around the detective, taking in every inch of his sweeping dark coat, the blue scarf undone, plum silk dress shirt pressed neatly and buttoned to the throat..  “He is pale and his face has odd angles.  His eyes aren’t quite blue or green. His chin is square.”  He studied his features carefully.  “He’s ordinary.  Boring.”  His tailcoat, covered in sparkling black and purple crystals, made light and shadow dance on their faces.

“Blimey, you sound just like him.” John was slightly amused.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded.  “Darling John.  I love you.”

“But John wants something more than the ordinary life he has with you, _detective,_ ” he spat the last word.  “That is why I am here.  He wants something you can’t give him.  He wants to be free.  He wants to be loved for who he is. He wants to be adored.”

John ran a hand through his blonde hair.  “Well, yeah, but don’t we all?”  

“He,” the Goblin King pointed to John, not taking his eyes off Sherlock, “wished for you to be taken away from him.  Your presence taunts him.  He cannot be who he wants to be with you.”  Jareth looked disdainfully at him, a sneer on his lips.  “I can be what he wants.  I can give him what he desires.”

“Sherlock?”  John was worried.

“John.”  He swallowed hard.  “Darling.  John.  My love.  Please…”

“How do you know what I want?”  He spun Jareth around by his shoulder.  A bit of glitter from his tailcoat came off on John’s hand.  

Jareth gathered John into his arms, kissing him hard.  Jareth’s mouth tasted of rose water.  Not like Sherlock’s mouth that had tasted of honey and cinnamon.  John struggled against the strange embrace, his hands pressed into the hard edged crystals sewn onto the coat.  A susurration of giggles filled the air around them.  Funny little voices: deep and old, high and young, raspy and accented.  A gasp that sounded like it came from Sherlock.  Then there was silence.  Jareth let John go, a malicious gleam in his eyes.

“Where is he?  Where is Sherlock?  What was that laughing?”

Jareth threw back his head and laughed.  “He’s been taken.”  He ran one finger down John’s chest.  “Now you can have everything you’ve ever wanted.”  The finger circled his navel.  “What do you want, John?”

John swallowed.  “I want Sherlock back.”

Jareth shook his head.  “No, John.  What do you really want?”

“I want to have someone in my life who loves me, who doesn’t expect me to be brilliant all the time.  I want to feel safe in the knowledge that no matter how crazy the world is, there is someone who adores me and only me. I want to be content.”

“I can give it to you.  All of it.”

“How?”

Jareth pulled the crystal ball out of thin air again, balancing it upon his gloved fingertips.  "Do you want it?" John felt this strange man's eyes bore through him.  “All of it is in here. Just tell me you want it from _me_.”

John straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, mouth set grimly.

"Then forget the detective."

"What?" John hissed.

"He's mine now, Doctor Watson."

"Where have you taken him? Where's Sherlock?"

Jareth stepped to the side, the tails of his coat swinging around his legs, reminding John of Sherlock's coat. "There. In my castle."  The Goblin King pointed. The sitting room at 221B Baker Street had disappeared.  John stared at the golden, dusty landscape before him, with the sun rising to over a castle in the distance.  The castle rose out of jagged white rock, carved and twisted, smooth and gleaming.

"Bloody brilliant... yep. Of course. I mean, why wouldn't there be a fucking castle in this hallucination?" John charged up to Jareth, waving one finger under his nose. His voice came out as a harsh whisper. "If you hurt one hair on Sherlock's head..."

"Come, come now," Jareth grinned. "Have you lost your head over one curly haired detective?"

"STOP with the impossibly arched eyebrow... thing," John waved his hands in front of his eyes.

“You have thirteen hours in which to solve the labyrinth before your detective Holmes becomes one of us… forever.”

“One of you?  What?  A fop with streaked hair?  Will he get impossible eyebrows?”

“A goblin, Doctor Watson.  If you fail to save your precious detective, he becomes one of my goblins.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the Labyrinth we go...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Join us for a cup of tea,” the fox pulled up a third chair. “We’ve been busy properly cultivating the roses outside the walls as a first line of defense! Thorns and whatnot to keep trespassers at bay.”   
> “Ah,” John nodded towards the lush roses. “They look lovely.”  
> “Things have been helped along since no one is urinating in the water supply anymore,” the fox nodded towards the goldfish pond.

Chapter 4

The Goblin King disappeared.  He simply faded away before John’s eyes.  John shook his head, trying to free his brain from the effects of whatever they had been slipped.  Sherlock was gone. The glittery man was gone.  The apartment at 221B Baker Street had dissolved around them, and now he stood alone on a hill looking into a valley.  In the center of the valley was a labyrinth of high walls, fruit trees and hedges that were probably 8 feet tall.  He slipped the small red book into his back trouser pocket. John rubbed his palms into his eyes, sighed, and started to make his way down the hill.  

The loose, rocky terrain leveled out and became a garden paved with grey stones, white rose bushes in full bloom filled the air with heady perfume.  Climbing roses wound their way up the red-brown brick walls and around fruit trees. Glitter seemed to hang in the air.  A fox wearing a feathered cap and a quilted vest sat in the shade of a peach tree, pouring tea for himself and a shaggy, horned creature who was too large for his tiny chair.  A sheep dog snored loudly under the table.

“Visit Sarah?” a deep voice came from the shaggy monster.

“Sarah will call us when she needs us,” the fox tutted.  “We only saw her last week.  Try some of these biscuits, brother Ludo.”  A paw pushed a china plate of carefully iced cookies towards him.

John stared slack jawed at the tea party before him.  He went through his entire childhood, every book he had read, every film he had seen, and could not figure out where these creatures came from.  His brain was making up some rather strange things.

He cleared his throat.

The fox leapt out of his seat. “Halt!  Who goes there?”

The shaggy monster stood, groaning as he straightened his back.  “Friend?”

John looked up at the reddish-brown monster.  He was used to looking up at Sherlock, but this thing was seven feet tall, and had two large bull-like horns on his head.  

“The question, brother Ludo, is friend or foe?” the fox tutted at him.

The monster groaned as if thinking was physical exertion.  

He gulped and put his hands up in front of him.  “Woah.  Yeah.  Um.  Totally a friend.  Wow.”

The creature nodded his head and delicately picked up the china plate.  He balanced it carefully in his leathery paw.  “Biscuit?”  The voice was so deep it made something vibrate uncomfortably in John’s stomach.

“By what name do you call yourself, friend?”  The fox barred his teeth at the last word.

“John.  John Watson.  I _am_ a friend.  I am.”

The fox reached out his tiny paw and shook John’s hand.  “I am Sir Didymus.  This is my noble brother in arms, Sir Ludo.  And this,” he nudged the sleeping dog with his boot, “is Ambrosius.”

John sighed.  “Yep.”

“Join us for a cup of tea,” the fox pulled up a third chair.  “We’ve been busy properly cultivating the roses outside the walls as a first line of defense!  Thorns and whatnot to keep trespassers at bay.”

“Ah,” John nodded towards the lush roses. “They look lovely.”

“Things have been helped along since no one is urinating in the water supply anymore,” the fox nodded towards the goldfish pond.

John wrinkled his nose.

“Friend John needs help?” Ludo asked.

“Yes. Yes, I do actually.  I need to get into the Labyrinth.”   _If I just play along with the illusions, I can find Sherlock, wake up, figure out who drugged us, and get back to mourning the deaths of Mary and little Alice, and being conflicted about Sherlock_ …. he thought.  

“Ah, the door is right here, my good man.”  Sir Didymus tiptoed to the wall, pulling back a veil of climbing roses to reveal an double wood door.

“Um, thank you.” John started to reach out his hand, wiped it on his trouser leg, then offered it again for the fox to shake.

“There is a spot called the Bog of Eternal Stench that is just lovely this time of year.  The Cow Pat Flowers are in full bloom.”  Didymus sniffed the air and sighed with a bit of melancholy.  “Ludo, we should take a little holiday to the swamp.”

The monster shook his head.  “Smells bad!”

John’s eyes grew wide.  “Ah, well, perhaps not this trip.  I’m looking for a friend.”

“Ah, a noble adventure, indeed.  Carry on, John Watson!  Tally-ho and what not.”

The heavy doors slammed and the sound echoed as they closed behind him.  John could hear the fox and the monster settling down for more tea and biscuits.  He leaned the back of his head against the wall and took a breath.  

“This is madness.  I’ve gone completely daft.  They’ll take away my medical license for sure after this,” he mumbled to himself.

“Hallo.”  

John looked around.  To either side were long empty corridors of stone paths and burnt brown clay brick walls.  Spindly lichen grew out of the cracks between the bricks.  Before him was solid wall.  

“Hallo.” the voice said again.

John looked down.  By his shoulder there was a broken brick.  Sitting on the ledge it created was a bright blue caterpillar wearing a red scarf.  It blinked its saucer-like eyes.

“Nope!” John threw his hands up.  “Nope.  I can’t.  Not now. Bloody ridiculous!”  He stormed off down the left path.

“Cor, that was rude,” mumbled the caterpillar.

 

***

 

“The prisoner is secured, your highness.”  A goblin with a long carrot shaped nose, dirty skin and wearing ill-fitting armor bowed to the king.

Jareth sat in his throne, legs draped over one arm of it. He had changed into a maroon leather cropped jacket, white shirt and grey pants. He tapped his maroon leather boot impatiently with a riding crop. He did not look at the goblin bowing before him.  He stared off, not focusing on anything in particular.  

“Your highness…”

“What is it about him?  What does John find so appealing about him?”

The goblin exchanged nervous looks with the guards standing nearby.

Jareth thoughtfully stroked his chin.  “Doctor Watson presents a new challenge for me,” he said aloud, more to himself than to his court.   But the goblins knew to be silent and pay attention.  “He is not bothered by a baby.  He is bothered by a man.  A grown man.  He wants him, but does not.  He loves him, but refuses to admit it.  And the way the detective looks…”

The prostrated goblin blurted out “He resembles you, your highness.”

His head snapped in the direction of the goblin bowing before him, assessing him as a hawk does its prey.

“What did you say?”

The goblin swallowed hard.  The guards shifted uncomfortably.  Some of the goblin court whispered and tried to slip into the shadows. A hen pecked her way across the dusty throne room floor.

“I…”

“Repeat it!”

“I…” the goblin trembled. “I said the prisoner resembles you, your highness.” Someone groaned in the shadows.  

Jareth righted himself on his throne and pointed his riding crop at the goblin.

“How?” he demanded.

“He isn’t as handsome and glittering as you, your highness.”  His armor rattled over his trembling body.  “But he could pass for your dark haired, not as handsome, brother, your grace.”

The goblin king leaned back in his seat, crossed an ankle over a knee and tapped his boot with his crop again as he thought.

“Hoggle!”

The source of the groan in the shadows limped forward.

“Yes, Jareth?”

“I have a plan.  Come with  me.”

“Ohhhh,” Hoggle groaned, as he limped quickly out of the throne room in the king’s wake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John encounters new challenges in the labyrinth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to thank my Beta's hubby for descriptive assistance. (Cheers, Tony!) 
> 
> Flora is the name of the Roman Goddess of flowers and Khloris is her Greek nymph counterpart.

Chapter 5

John pushed an iron gate open and stepped up.  On the other side was a floor of perfectly masoned blocks, the walls now made of the same materials, giving an all over livid grey tinge to the place.  Glitter still seemed to hang in the air, streaming from what looked like large dragonflies.  One flew close to his face.  John stretched out his hand and it alighted on his finger.  A tiny woman with iridescent wings perched herself delicately on her bare feet on his index finger.

“Oh, aren’t you lovely?  Ouch!”

He shook his hand to get rid of the fairy.  He put his finger in his mouth, then checked it for puncture marks.

“Did she bite you?”

John looked up. The voice was female and seductive. The grey wall that had been in front of him was now an open courtyard with magnolia trees in full bloom.  The stone floor was gone, replaced by a carpet of thick moss.  Wisteria hung heavily in purple clusters over a gazebo.  More fairies flitted around the flowers, creating trails of glitter in the air. Blooms of violets, daisies, roses, bachelor buttons, sunflowers, sedum, iris, lilies created a riot of colour and perfume.  In the shade of a magnolia stood a woman. Her golden red hair was wound and piled on her head, held in place by diamond headed pins. Her skin was milky pale and freckled.  She stepped out of the shade, allowing John to be blinded by the morning sunlight glinting off her.  With the light behind her, her body created a dark silhouette through her diaphanous shift.  John saw something like it in a lingerie catalog once.  But the model had been wearing matching panties and bra.  This woman walking towards him was not wearing as much as that.

“Ah… yes.  It bit me.”

“Nasty little fairies,” she was close enough to take John’s hand and place a kiss upon his bitten finger.  

His gaze went from her forget-me-not blue eyes to her full lips, to the pink nipples standing out against the ivory gossamer fabric.  The perfume of her skin, a blend of rose and lavender, made him ache to kiss her.

“This was a solid wall a moment ago,” was all he could think to say.

A girly giggle, high and tinkling, came from the gazebo.  A second woman, shorter, with a fuller figure, glided out into the sunlight.  Her brown curls, streaked with purple, bounced around her round cheeks.  She wrinkled her button nose as she giggled again.  “No, handsome.  That’s a dead-end behind you.”

“Oh, wow.  It changes?  This places changes?  How am I supposed to get to the castle?”

“Khloris,” the sultry ginger’s sing-song voice tugged at something in John’s groin. “This gentle sir has been bitten by a fairy.”

“Oh,” Khloris giggled.  “He will need kisses to make it better.”

The dark haired woman took John’s hand from her friend.  She looked up at John with hazel eyes, flecked with ochre and sienna.  The colours made him think of sunsets in the Italian countryside and sunflowers. She brought his bitten finger to her lips, flicking her tongue gently over the marks.

“Oh,” he exhaled.  “I… I think it’s feeling better.”

The women looked at one another.  The ginger pressed her lips together in a seductive pout. “Fairy bites always need lots of kisses.  Don’t they, Khloris?”

Giggle. “Oh, yes, Flora.  They take _hours_ to recover from.”

Flora slipped her arm around John’s waist and began to steer him towards the gazebo.  “Do you remember the last time I was bit by a fairy?”

Khloris’ tittering laugh reminded John of wind chimes and birdsong.  Her arm slid around him, John was pinned between them.  “Oh yes, Flora,” her breath a pant, “I had to kiss you for a whole day.”

“Mmmm…” Flora had a throaty chuckle that rumbled in the depths of John’s belly.  “I still haven’t quite recovered.  I may need more.”

“Oh, do you need more kisses?” They stopped beneath the wisteria. Khloris placed a fingertip against Flora’s lips.  

“Indeed.” she licked the finger pressed to her mouth. “But first, we must take care of this fine gentleman.”

“I…” They spun him around and pushed him onto a round bed.  He landed in a pile of silk pillows.  “I feel so much better already. I really need to be off…”

Flora’s throaty laugh waivered between sinister and sexy. “Mmmmm…” she purred.  “Off with this…” She ran her hands up his torso, slipping his jumper over his head.  She tossed it to the corner of the garden.  Violet creeping thyme and red sedum tendrils slithered towards it and enveloped it in their leaves.

“I like that jumper.  Sherlock said it’s … charming…”

Flora pressed her lips against his throat, flicking her tongue, tasting his skin.  Khloris was unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt.  She took each finger into her mouth, lathing the length with her tongue, and pressing a tiny kiss to each fingertip. Her lips skimmed in delicate tickles over his inner wrists.

“Oh.”

The ginger swung her leg over his hip and straddled him, unbuttoning his shirt. Her flimsy slip was pulled up to her waist; her naked, warm sex pressed against his erection. He sat up a bit on his elbows and saw the downy hairs between her thighs were golden red. Khloris moved behind him and helped him into a sitting position, pulling his shirt off his arms.  John was face to face with Flora, her strawberry scented lips not quite touching him with feathery light quivers.

“Your fairy bite was more severe than we first assessed.”  She slipped her tongue into his mouth.  Her breasts pressed to his chest, only his undershirt and her slip separating them.  John felt the brunette’s hands slide his undershirt up, her touch consumed him, as if drinking in every inch of his skin. “You will require so many more kisses.”

Khloris pressed her bosom to his bare back, her lips to the spot behind his ear.  “So many more,” she whispered.

Long legs wrapped around his waist, Flora pressed her moist sex harder against him.  She devoured his mouth, licking and outlining his lips and teeth and tongue.  The taste of strawberries in her mouth and the heady floral perfume from both women intoxicated him.   _Sherlock said to play along with the hallucination.  We wouldn’t want anything bad to happen.._. John grabbed her waist, driving her hips against him. The petal soft fabric slipped over her creamy skin, and John tossed it aside. He pulled away from her mouth, to kiss the length of her milky neck and freckled chest, before settling his attention on her breasts. He hummed as he felt her nipples harden under his ministrations.  The tender blush skin responded quickly to his mouth.

All the while Khloris was behind him, kissing the length of his spine. “Ooooo,” her girlish birdsong moaned. “Flora gets kisses for her fairy bite.”

“It was so severe,” Flora playfully whined.  “I need more kisses.”

“Do you need us both to kiss it better?”

John suddenly found himself sandwiched between them.  They kissed over his shoulder.  Khloris’ spiral tresses grazing his cheek.  Flora’s breast filled his mouth, suffocating him slightly.  He wiggled until the ladies broke their liplock.

“Sorry, couldn’t breathe for a moment.”

Khloris tipped John’s head back.  She slipped her tongue into his eager mouth.  She tasted like almonds and honey.  John wanted more of her, but Flora had him pinned.   She would not stop undulating her hips.  The ginger splayed her palms across his chest.

“Oh Flora,” Khloris rested John’s head between her naked breasts.  “I’m neglecting you again.”

They smirked at one another.  The brunette slid around to the front.  The women knelt on either side of him.  Khloris had removed her sheer slip at some point.  John was mesmerized by her areoles, light tan like a freckle but the nipple was like rose gold.  Her freckles sparkled like fine grains of mica.  Their hands were exploring one another.  They caressed each curve as if it were precious, each contour as if committing the feeling to memory. Khloris bent her head to take Flora’s breast into her mouth. Her full lips moist, sucking and tugging on the redhead’s nipple.  John groaned.

“Oh!” Khloris pulled away suddenly. “We can’t neglect our fine gentleman.  He’ll never recover if we don’t minister to his needs.” She placed one hand on his chest and pressed him back into the pillows.

“Indeed,” Flora unbuckled his belt and unzipped his flies.  “How rude of me, demanding your kisses when he is in dire need of them.”

“No, don’t worry about me,” he blurted. “You can kiss her all you like. Please.  Don’t let me interrupt.  Kiss her again.”

Throaty laugh and tittering giggle mingled like a siren’s song.  

Khloris kissed along John’s jaw, her fingers dancing across his nipples.  Flora had removed his trousers and pants.  She grazed her lips over his hip, and into the nest of ash blonde hair at the base of his erection. Khloris rubbed her button nose along his neck, allowing her hot breathe to raise gooseflesh.  Flora lathed her tongue over his testes.  John moaned loudly.

“Khloris, I think I have found the worst of the fairy bite.”

“Oh, good. Let me help you.”

“I was bit on my fing… oh… my…”

Khloris took the length of him between her ample lips.  Flora continued to lap at his testes, taking each one into her mouth and rolling them gently.  John lost control of his body, and fell limp into the embrace of the bed beneath him. Every nerve crackled as if electrified.  He could feel every hair on his arms stand to attention.  His body tingled.  He closed his eyes, taking in the scents of the flower garden, the sensation of the women, and his mind began to wander. What would it look like if it  was Sherlock between his legs?  Sherlock’s pale face, dark curly mop, and piercing silvery blue eyes looking up at him; mouth full of John.  His deep voice vibrated, plucking strings in John’s core like a double bass being strummed.  “Is this how you want me, John?”

“Oh yes,” he said aloud.

The ladies giggled.  

John did not hear them.

Sherlock made his tongue dance over the glans.  He did not break eye contact. “I want you to watch me, John.  Watch how much I want you.”

“I want to watch,” John said, his eyes still closed.

The ladies giggled again.  They did not stop.  Their full attention was on John.

“See me, John.” Sherlock licked up the frenulum, made circles around the head, then wrapped his ample lips around it, before taking the full length of John’s erection.

“Oh… geez…  I see you,” he moaned.

Sherlock licked the length of him from base to tip.  “Say my name, John.  I want to hear you say my name.”

“Oh God, Sherlock.  Sherlock… I want…”

The birdsong giggle broke the dream.  

“Flora?”

“Yes, Khloris?”

“Who is Sherlock?”

John sat up quickly.  He grabbed his clothes and clambered off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“We haven’t finished healing you from your fairy bite.”

“Don’t you want to be healed?”

The naked women slipped off the bed.  They seemed to glide across the mossy garden.

John hopped into his pants, nearly falling over as he struggled into his trousers.  

“Nope. I’m good.  But you know, Khloris,” he smiled at the brunette.  “Poor Flora isn’t entirely better from her fairy bite.  I’m a doctor.  I prescribe many more kisses for Flora.”

“Oh goodness, Flora.  I didn’t realize it was so bad for you.”

The forget-me-not blue eyes widened, her glistening strawberry lips parted slightly. “I didn’t want to bother you with my injury.”

John pulled his undershirt over his head.  He looked around the garden for a door.  To the right of the women was a double wooden door painted with daisies.  He walked hurriedly towards it.

“Oh, darling Flora!” Khloris dropped to her knees, pressing kisses to her soft belly, making circles with her tongue over Flora’s navel.

Flora looked over her shoulder at John as he reached the gate.  She winked at him.  He paused as he put on his button down and nodded to the red head.  The image of the pale, curvy women naked in the sunlight was blinding for a moment. John pushed the painted doors and prayed he was closer to the castle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John finally reads the book, Hoggle is snarky and there is dancing.

Chapter 6

Sherlock sat on the edge of a twin bed. The quilt was patchwork.  The fabrics were in shades of pink and green with lots of flowers and hearts. Care had been used by the seamstress when choosing the fabrics and creating a pattern out of the squares. Sewn by someone who loved the girl it was gifted to.  The pillow had a pink case on it.  There were dark marks on it, mascara ruined by tears. The bookshelf on the wall was lined with titles that made Sherlock roll his eyes: The Secret Garden, Mandy, The Wind In the Willows, The Hobbit, The Chronicles of Narnia, Earthsea.  The books hidden under the pillow were more interesting.  When he threw himself on the bed in a sulk, his head found them unexpectedly.  A dog eared copy of Arabian Nights and a red, hard bound copy of Labyrinth.

The young woman who once belonged to this room had been on the verge of growing up.

Plush animals were piled in a hammock in the corner of the room.  An oversized unicorn had been placed across the foot of the bed.  Sherlock had kicked it off.  The wardrobe was jammed with dresses.  Some were simple sun dresses.  Most were elaborate prom gowns in shimmering fabrics, flouncy tulle, and  rhinestone studded velours.  Impractical heels in colours to match every dress were lined up neatly on the wardrobe floor.  The white vanity held more interesting objects.  There was a huge collection of partially used make up, the majority of which were tubes of garish lipsticks and eyeshadows that were mostly glitter.  A pile of photos of a girl and her mother filled one whole drawer.  They told the story of an auburn haired girl in braids as she grew up.  She was the image of her mother.  In one photo the two were looking into the camera, two pairs of green eyes that now stared at Sherlock, taunting him to deduce their tale.  As the photos became more recent the girl blossomed from awkward to teenager.  A few spots of acne, budding bosom, hips filled out.  But the mother wasted away.  She became thinner.  Her skin became sallow.  The last photo in the pile was of the girl, her auburn hair in one plait down her back, asleep with her head in the lap of the mother who was sitting up in a hospital bed, feeding tube and IVs in her.

The door to the room was pushed open.  A short man with a bulbous nose, deeply wrinkled skin and whispy white hair limped into the room. He held a neatly folded pile of clothes.  He kicked the door shut behind him.

“Who are you?”

The short man ignored him as he hobbled to the vanity. A key ring laden with brass and iron skeleton keys clanged against his thigh.  He lay the pile upon the stool.

“I’m Hoggle.” he turned to look at him.  Sherlock studied the wide mouth, heavy eyelids, and greyish complexion.  

“You aren’t human,” Sherlock stated.

Hoggle rolled his eyes and sighed.  “No, I ain’t. Bright one, you are.”

“Aren’t,” Sherlock corrected.  “What are you?”

Hoggle shrugged.  “Dwarf. No one’s ever asked me before.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I was born inside the walls of the labyrinth.  I work for the Goblin King.  I once tended the roses at the outside wall.  But now... I serve Jareth.”  He shook his head, sorrow in his voice.

“Service as a punishment for something.  You used to work for him, but now you serve him.” Sherlock nodded.  “A dwarf.  Subservient. Probably have a weakness for young ladies who end up in the maze.”

“Wh… Why would you say that for?”

Sherlock pointed to the plastic bracelet on Hoggle’s wrist, then the rhinestone earring he had stuck in his waistcoat like a lapel pin.  

“Tokens.  Those aren’t trophies.  You don’t collect things randomly.  These are gifts, tokens of affection from young girls you’ve helped to solve the labyrinth.”

“How did you know that?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin.  “I read the book.”

Hoggle moaned. He began limping towards the door.

“What are the clothes for?”

Hoggle paused, looking over his shoulder. “For you.  Jareth wants you to dress up for a ball.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow.  “He’s throwing a ball?”

“Get dressed. He’ll be expecting you to be ready.”

“And who is going to attend this… ball?”

Hoggle shrugged.  “People.  Fey.”  He swallowed.  “John.”

“John?” Sherlock stood.  “Where is he?”

“He’s in the labyrinth, making his way towards the castle.”

“I don’t know how much of his experience in Afghanistan will help in this situation.  But I am sure Captain Watson is doing well.”  He paced the small room. Suddenly he turned towards Hoggle, pointing a finger at him. “Is John well?”

“He’s fine,” Hoggle backed away, hands up.

Sherlock studied the dwarf.  He clapped his hands together.  “You’re going to see John.”  It was a statement.  “You are going to deliver an… invitation… to him to this ball.”

Hoggle gulped. “How did you…”

“Never mind,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  “Here,” Sherlock knelt.  He undid his left cufflink and stuck it into a buttonhole in  the orange leather waistcoat next to the garish rhinestone earring.

“Wh… What’s that for?”  Hoggle looked down with sparkling eyes at the silver cufflink engraved with the initials WSSH.

“A… thank you,” Sherlock attempted a smile.  His facial muscles moved into a few - terrifying, goofy - before settling on one that felt like the way his face felt when he smiled at John.  The look in Hoggle’s eyes told him he got the final smile right.  The little man relaxed, but eyed him suspiciously.

“Thank you for what?  I ain’t helped you with nuthin’.”

“Anything,” Sherlock corrected.  “And yes, you have.  You let me know my John… well, John… is safe.”

Hoggle sighed. He leaned towards Sherlock conspiratorially.  “I can’t promise any more help or nothin’,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But Jareth is bothered by the goblins sayin’ you look like him.  Those clothes are from Jareth’s closet.   _His_ clothes. You seem clever. Do with that what you will.”

Hoggle backed away.  He looked intently into Sherlock’s eyes, willing him to understand him.

Sherlock widened his eyes and nodded.

“Why am I in here?” Sherlock stood, spreading his arms, turning up his nose at the room.

“This is your cell.  The castle is full of them.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “A castle full of cells made up like teenage girls’ bedrooms?”

Hoggle shrugged. “You read the book.”  The door slammed shut behind him.

 

***

John was not sure what to expect on the other side of the flower women’s door.  But the manicured topiaries, larger than life size statues and stone chairs were not it.  Boxwood was trained and trimmed into arches.  An urn large enough for him to climb inside of was on a carved stone table. The cover was off it slightly.  John slid the cover to peer inside.  The rungs of a ladder and a cold draft greeted him.  He pulled out his mobile to use as a torch.  The ladder went down about nine meters.  There was a tunnel below. John looked under the urn. It was just a table. He slid his arm under it, touching the opposite table legs. He could see across the manicured garden.  An old man with long white hair and a pointed hat was walking towards him. He jumped up to look inside the urn again.  He pocketed his mobile, shook his head, and slid the cover closed.  

“Ah, hello there.” John approached the old man as he was climbing onto one of the stone chairs.

It took a few seconds for the old man to turn, sit and raise his head.

“Oh,” his voice crackled. “Hello young man.”

John realized it was not a pointed hat. The sparsely feathered head and neck of something akin to an emu blinked at him.  

“Um… yes… I was wondering if you could help me.”

The old man blinked slowly.  “So… you need help?”

“Uh… yes, please.”

“Huh, how’s that for brain power?” sniped the bird head.

John tried not to look at the bird.

“Yes.  Well, I need to get to the castle at the center of the labyrinth. See, this mad goblin king bloke took my friend…”

“So…” the old man’s voice sounded heavy, as if he had fluid in his lungs and phlegm in his throat.  “You need to get to the castle…”

“Yes, and I’m in a bit of a hurry.  So if you could…”

“The goblin king took your friend?”  There was a hint of confusion in the old man’s voice.

“Oh,” the bird head said with disgust.  “Aren’t you a bright one.”

“Shush,” he glared upwards at the bird.  “The goblin king took your friend… Not a brother?”

“What? Well, no.  Not my brother.  Best friend, really.  Perhaps more than that.  But I’m not sure. I mean, we have to talk about it. Look…” he ran his hand over his hair in frustration. John paused, tilting his head.  “Why would it be a brother?”

The old man groaned as he shifted his weight in the chair. “It’s most often a baby brother.”

“Sometimes a baby sister,” the bird head chimed.

“A baby… Oh!” John reached into his back pocket.  The bird head leaned forward to peer at the red book.  “This goblin king fellow steals babies to lure in young girls he has fallen in love with?”

“Ah, you’re a smart one.  Can I be your head?” asked the bird.

“Would you please be quiet?” the old man barked.

“Sorry,” the bird sniffed.

“Yes…” the old voice trembled with phlegm.

“Then why am I here?  Why did he lure me into the labyrinth and kidnap Sherlock?”  John tapped the book against his palm.  “Wait - is the goblin king _in love_ with me?”

“It would seem so, young man.”

 _‘But I’m not gay’,_ did not reach his lips.  

“So,” chirped the bird, “you need to get to the castle?”  It blinked.

“Uh,  yes. Please. Do you know the way?”  John realized he was addressing the bird. He shifted his gaze to the old man.

“Sometimes, young man, the answers are within us all along.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head.  “That’s really not….” he realized the old man was snoring.  “Helpful.”

“I, uh, think that’s your lot,” said the bird.  The old man’s hand came forward and shook a wooden box on a handle.  “Please, leave a contribution in the little box.”

John reached into his pockets. All he had on him were the book, his mobile, his flat keys and his wedding ring.

The bird shook the box again.

John slipped his wedding band off and listened to it clink in the empty box.  He wiped his hand on his trousers.  Why hadn’t he taken it off sooner? What would Sherlock say when he noticed it was gone?  His finger felt naked. He rubbed the spot with his thumb. Could he ask for it back?  Would he want it?  

The old man snored loudly.  The bird blinked again.  John did a semi-bow and walked quietly out of the garden in a direction he hoped was towards the castle.

***

Through a boxwood archway, he had found an wooden gate.  when he looked through, it looked like more of the same type of garden lay before him.  Once he crossed through the gate, he was on the edge of a  dark woodland. He shook himself, squared his shoulders and marched onward.  The air was thick and warm.  He knew there was sunlight. The tree canopy allowed some to filter down.  Crickets chirped and cicadas buzzed.  Fat lazy bumble bees hovered over begonias and larkspurs at the edge of the path. He could hear the trickle of a stream, but could not see it. He saw fairies flitting about some giant bleeding hearts. The blooms were as large as a fist; swollen buds of fuschia and white. Those plants were off his path.  He felt it safer to stay away from fairies.

He was not sure how many hours had passed since he began.  Jareth said he had thirteen hours.  How long had he been in the flower garden?  His body shivered with pleasure at the memory.  If this was an hallucination, it felt incredibly real.  Why had Khloris’ sweet round face turned into Sherlock’s long thin one when John closed his eyes?  Why had her golden eyes transformed into his silver blue ones?  The memory of her plump lips sent a jolt across the nerves in his pants. Ah.  Sherlock’s lips.

He looked at the shrubs and trees along the trail for berry bushes or fruit trees.  He examined the leaves, hoping to identify some root vegetable growing wild.  All his army training, all his medical school education, could not keep him sustained if he couldn’t find food or the source of the water.

The stream he heard was now visible.  It curved out of the woods and ran parallel to the trail he was following. The water was clear. The stones at the bottom were bright yellow, vivid acid green and lapis blue.  At a bend in the trail was a  pool of icy cold water.  Where the stream burbled and bubbled over smooth stones before it entered the pool, was a large boulder and a patch of dry leaves.  John sat down, pulling the red book out of his back pocket.  He should have read it already.  He felt somewhat safe in this shaded wood.  Taking advantage of the relative safety and quiet, John sat down on the leaves, back against the boulder, to read.

The sun had moved overhead.  The shadows were longer in the wood. John closed the book. Not great literature.  Now, in what he hoped was the heart of the labyrinth, and close to the end of his hallucination, he was glad he had read it. His stomach grumbled. John sat up to wash his face and hands in the running water, and take a sip to refresh himself.

As he rubbed the water from his eyes, he saw the reflection of a deeply wrinkled face with round eyes, bulbous nose and wispy white hair.  For a moment he thought he was seeing the old wise man again.  He looked up and was face to face over the stream with an unpleasant little man.  A leather cap sat snugly on his balding head.  His white shirt was yellowed with stains and age.  The orange leather vest he wore was tooled with designs he could not identify.  Stuck in the vest like a lapel pin was a rhinestone earring, white and pink with a glass flower. Beside it was a silver cufflink engraved with the letters WSSH.

John lunged at him.  “Where did you get that cufflink?  Where is Sherlock?” John had the dwarf  pinned to the damp ground, a firm grip on his waistcoat.

“Gerroff!! Gerroff!” Hoggle struggled.

“Not until you tell me what happened to Sherlock!” John held him down with his right hand as he tried to take the cufflink off with his left.

“How do you know I seen Sherlock?”

“Because,” John held up the silver rectangle, “I gave him these for Christmas last year. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Where is he?”

Hoggle scrambled on his back away from John. He stood, brushing himself off.  

“He gave it to me.”

“What?” John snapped.  A bit of hurt rose in his chest.

“He knew I was going to see you. So he clipped it to my waistcoat. He said it was a thank you, but I knew it was for you.”

“Where is he?”

“Jareth has him locked in the castle.  He’s safe!” Hoggle put his hands up defensively.  “I seen him in his cell.”

John paced, pointing the cufflink towards Hoggle as he punctuated his words. “Sherlock is in a cell, in the castle. And he sent you to see me with this,” he waved his hand a bit more, “to let me know he’s okay.”  He breathed a sigh of relief and slipped the cufflink into his pocket.

“Who are you, by the way?”

“Me?  I’m Hoggle.”

“Hoggle?  Sure.”  John rubbed his eyes.  “I think I stopped wondering where my brain came up with all of you hours ago.  I’m not sure anymore that this is a hallucination.”

“Halluci-wot?”

“We started this off thinking we’d be slipped some LSD or something.  Perhaps having a drug induced dream together.”  

“This ain’t no dream.”

“Oh, Sherlock must have loved your grammar.”  John sat down on the boulder. “Do you know what time it is?  When I arrived the sun was rising and Jareth said I had thirteen hours.  I can’t tell where the sun is in the sky under all these trees.  And my mobile isn’t working,” he pulled the phone out and looked sadly at the lock screen telling him it was three-thousand six p.m.

“It’s about seven hours since sunrise.”

“No wonder I’m starving,” John looked around them.  “I can’t seem to find any berries or any edible roots I am familiar with.  You don’t happen to know what is safe to eat in these woods, do you?”

Hoggle opened the leather pouch hanging from his belt.  He pulled out a peach.

“Uh… would this do?”

John eyed him suspiciously.  “It isn’t poisoned, is it?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened.  

“Nah, I’m kidding, mate. Ta.”  John took the peach.  He brought it to his lips, but did not bite.  He dropped his hand.  “Seven hours?  Damn. How long was I with those women?”

“Women?”  Hoggle tried not to look nervously at the peach.

“Yeah. I walked into this flower garden and there were these two mostly naked women.  Then there was all this kissing...”

“The flower nymphs,” Hoggle harrumphed.  “Khloris and Flora.  You get bit by a fairy?”

“Yeah.  Unexpected. I always thought fairies did nice things.”

“Common misconception.”  Hoggle grunted.  “I hate fairies.  Nasty little buggars.   When I used to guard the outside of the wall I would kill them.  I think Sir Didymus and Ludo are soft for them. They got roses to grow on the outside of the walls like it’s enchanted. They planted some fruit trees, too. Damned fairies are everywhere now.”

“Didymus is the… fox? And Ludo is the big shaggy thing that looks like a highland cow with really big ears and with the horns on the wrong way?”

Hoggle nodded.

John bit into the peach. “One of Didymus and Ludo’s peaches?” he asked with his mouth full.  

Hoggle nodded, staring at the peach.

“This is really…” he blinked.  “Really…” he wiggled his right fingers. “Odd.” He looked at the peach. It looked normal.  The yellow flesh was juicy, the reddish skin was fuzzy.

“What did you give me?” He tried to stand, but his knees gave out.  John lay in the pile of leaves by the stream.

“An invitation.  Tell Sherlock hello.”

Hoggle limped off into the woods.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John can waltz, Sherlock plays violin, per my niece's request Sherlock dances, and TANGO!

Chapter 7

John lay on the ground, limp and drowsy.  The green and yellow canopy above him swayed like drapes in a breeze, or ladies fancy dresses.  Fairies flew close to him, peering with their tiny faces.  He thought he heard them laughing.  He wanted to shoo them away, but he could not move his arms.  His body felt heavy with drugged sleep.  This was what their bodies should feel like if they were under the influence of a hallucinogen.  Not the wide awake feeling he had so far in the labyrinth. The fairies didn’t bite him. They giggled and flew away.

At least he would be spared nymph kisses.

Above his face bubbles hovered.  John struggled to lift an arm to pop one.  It was cold and hard against his finger.  He forced his fingers to grasp it.  He brought it to his face.  A crystal ball.  Inside were swirls of colour. Could he suddenly see the future?  He chucked to himself inside his head. The swirling colours separated and came together again. Tiny heads appeared on tiny bodies.  John pressed the crystal to his eye for a closer look.

He stood at the top of a staircase in a white ballroom.  The floors and walls were stark white, light from cut crystal chandeliers and fat candles made rainbow shafts glint off of glitter that seemed to cover everything. The chandeliers hung at different levels.  Some he walked under, running his hands through strands of pearls and faceted crystal beads.  Others he had to walk around; they hung so low their candles dripped onto the beads, pinning them to the floor with stalactites of wax.

Dancers twirled and spun around the floor below.  Ladies in voluminous gowns that swept across the floor. Every face wore a mask; feathers, horns, pointed noses and skulls.  John reached up to touch his face.  He also wore a mask.  He saw his sleeve. It was scarlet with a white cuff and brass buttons. He caught his reflection in a mirror. Captain Watson looked back at him.  John wore a simple gold eye mask. His scarlet tailcoat was a tailored replica of what he could best imagine was a nineteenth century uniform.  The epaulets and tassels were gold, the button brass. His trousers were black and tight.  John turned to admire how they clung to his thighs.  His boots were polished black leather.  The heels clicked against the marble floor.

A mournful waltz began to play.  A lone violin player stood on a dais.  John recognized it as Brahms.  An unseen orchestra joined the violinist. Waltz for Violin was one of John’s favorite pieces.  Sherlock played it for him sometimes at night when they traded the teapot for a bottle of wine.  

John walked down the stairs, tugging at the waist of his tailcoat.  A couple ran past him; the woman in grey shimmering chiffon wore a mask with a beak, framed in pale pink feathers, the man a puffy sleeved silk tunic, grey waistcoat and pink pants.  His mask had horns and fangs that framed his laughing mouth. A pair of women glided past him.  The one leading had a bodice laced so tightly her bosom appeared to be served on a platter of brown leather.  Her dark skirt was fitted, slit up the sides so her thighs flashed with her steps.  Her partner was a cloud of sea green studded with whorls and spirals of sequins.  

Each step brought him closer to the violinist.  John saw that he wore navy trousers, tight in all the right places, tucked into boots.  The flounces on his white shirt were topped with a sapphire broach. His tailcoat was encrusted with stones - sapphires and diamonds that John imagined were real - the deep blue fabric played with light and shadow as he bowed.  His lips were pressed into a sexy pout as his chin rested on the violin.  Dark curls fell over the mask that covered his eyes. The mask was black and simple, somehow making him more mysterious. The jeweled collar on the tailcoat was turned up.  There was glitter on his cheekbones.

“Sherlock!” John cried out.  

He continued to play the waltz.

Dancers swirled between them, pushing him away from Sherlock.

A strong hand spun John around.  

Jareth slid an arm around John’s waist, moving him in time to the music.

The green eyes were disarming.  His eyebrows arched upward at a strange angle, icy peridot eyeshadow accented them. The permanently dilated pupil had depths that made John afraid to peer into. His blonde hair was teased and highlighted with streaks of greens and blues.  He did not wear a mask.  His emerald silk tailcoat collar was high and studded with sparkling gems in shades of green and black.  A black silk shirt lay open, pale bare chest and that odd tailed triangle pendant exposed.

Jareth whispered in John’s ear. “Your _partner_ ,” he hissed the word, “somehow got a hold of my favorite party clothes.”  He pressed a thigh to John’s, dipped him slightly, up righted him and spun him in his arms.  They were nose to nose.  That rosewater breath hot on his mouth was intoxicating.  “I wanted to look my best for you, Captain Watson.”  

Jareth tilted his head, pressing a small kiss to John’s mouth.  The lavender pink gloss on his lips tasted of champagne. John flicked the flavor off his lips with his tongue.  

Sherlock’s playing faltered for a moment.  John looked towards him.  Sherlock stayed rooted to his spot on the dais, continuing to play.

“He is enchanted. Frozen to the spot.  He must play for us.  He must watch us,” Jareth whispered.

“Watch us do what?” John tried to sound tough, but his voice was weak. He was falling under the goblin king’s spell.

“Touch.” Jareth ran a hand down the length of John’s back where it rested above his gluteals.  

“Dance.” Jareth stepped.  One-two-three, one-two-three, promenade, one-two-three.  John, who had barely been able to lead a waltz step at his own wedding reception, fell easily into step with Jareth. Their boot  heels clicked on the marble floor as they rose and fell in time.  Dancers moved next to them, in front of and behind them.

“Kiss.” Jareth cupped the back of John’s head.  His kiss was passionate and deep.  John was surprised as Jareth’s tongue explored his mouth. He could not break away.  Champagne and roses filled his senses.

The bow skidded across the strings.  Dancers laughed and pointed at Sherlock.  He was fighting against the spell that kept him pinned to the spot.  He pointed the bow at Jareth.

Jareth grinned.  His canines were slightly snaggle toothed and gave him a vampiric countenance.  He laughed, left John alone, and disappeared into the crowd.

John turned to look at Sherlock.  The dais was empty.  He stood on tiptoes to scan the crowd.

“Sherlock!” he shouted.

A redheaded woman twirled into his arms. Her ginger hair was piled on her head in waves and curls, blue and yellow feathers tucked between.  Some ringlets hung down the back of her long pale neck. A tiny gold bird skull on a chain rested on her decolletage.   She placed his hand on her waist and led him into the next waltz. The bright blue charmeuse gown and curve of her hip reminded John of something.  He looked past her parrot beak mask to the forget-me-not blue eyes.

“Flora?”

“Lovely to see you again,” she lightly kissed the side of his mouth.  

“I need to find Sherlock,” he tried to pull away.  

Her grip on his left hand crushed his fingers.

“Our soloist?  He was enchanting.  Lovely playing. Except when he missed some notes. Still…”she sighed, “he must be one of his majesty’s favorites.”

“Why do you say that?”

Flora’s left hand toyed with the tassels on his epaulets.  “Because he is wearing his majesty’s favorite coat and shirt. As for the pants, well…” her fingers stroked the scarlet fabric.  “This is a first that a man has gotten into them.”  She tossed her head back, laughing at her own joke.  Her golden red ringlets, swinging across her neck.  

“Why would you say that?” he asked, his tone casual. John took control of the steps, leading Flora from a box step into a promenade.

“Usually his majesty likes younger ladies.  Girls who aren’t women yet.” This time her sigh was sad.  “Doesn’t leave much of a chance for women with an eye to be queen.”  

Up and down, weaving through the throng of dancers, John kept her physically in his control.

“Would he want a king?”

Her throaty laugh made his blood rush to his pants.

“My darling, he _is_ a king.”

John smiled charmingly.  “I mean, would he want a man to rule at his side?  As perhaps his prince consort?  As a husband?”

“Hmmm,” her purr was thoughtful.  “I would have thought _you_ were more his type.”

John twirled her to a stop.  She fell, breathless, into his arms. “Do you think I have a chance?”

Flora traced his gold mask with one finger.  “I imagine you could get anything. You. Want.”  She punctuated each word with a kiss.  

John licked her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.  

“I do love strawberries.”

Her throaty chortle died away in the crowd as she was whisked away by another dancer.

John looked around the room, assessing the scene.  The sea foam green gown glided past with her partner in brown leather.  John admired the ample bosoms as they past.  He could hear Flora’s laugh again.  She was in the arms of a man dressed all in bright red, pants so tight they looked as if they were painted on his muscular thighs.  He could not see either Jareth or Sherlock in the crowd.  

He made his way to a table at the edge of the room.  A punch bowl offered something clear and sweet.  John sipped some from a crystal cup.  He saw a woman walking in a crowd of men, giggling and kissing each on the cheek.  Her curly brown hair framed her face, and she wore a crown of tiny sunflowers.  Her honey chiffon gown glimmered as if spun from sunlight.  Her mask was in the shape of an animal skull.  

John marched up to the crowd.  The men hung back. John placed one hand across his low back and the other in front of him.  He bowed.

“Lady Khloris,” he kissed the proffered hand.  “May I have this dance?”

Her birdsong giggle filled his head. “The price for a dance with me is a kiss.”

John stood, squaring his shoulders, head snapping to attention.  “Madam, I know you have enjoyed my kisses in the past as much as I have enjoyed yours.  I am happy to bestow more upon your loveliness in exchange for a dance.”  He lifted his mask slightly and winked.

“It’s you!” Khloris squealed before dissolving into giggles.  

John flashed his charming smile, pulled her tightly to him, crushing her ample bosom to the brocade on his jacket. Her lips were soft and tasted of almonds. He looked over his shoulder, then swung her into the crowd as they joined the next waltz.

John scanned the crowd, looking for bejeweled coats and blonde rock star hair. Khloris continued to titter and sigh, grinning broadly.  

In a corner of the room a white painted throne sat upon a tiered stage.  Jareth sat there, one leg draped over the arm of the throne. His black pants and boots a sharp contrast against the alabaster velvet cushions.  Raven haired twins, wearing bird beak masks, draped themselves casually across the floor at his feet.   They wore matching black corsets over dove silk dresses.  Puffy sleeves hung off their shoulders.  Petticoats of midnight lace peeked from under the layered silk skirts; their grey calf skin boots had four inch heels.

Jareth’s gaze was fixed on the dais.  Sherlock stood there again.  He did not have a violin.  This time stood perfectly still, staring at the goblin king. John moved his partner in their direction.

“Dance for me, Sherlock,” Jareth commanded.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders back as he exhaled.  He shook his head, shaking curls out of his face.  He bent his knees slightly, curved his arms and did a pirouette, toe pointed to his knee.  The raven haired women looked unimpressed. He effortlessly spun again and again, raising his leg behind him, one arm up, looking, to John, like a music box dancer. He stopped on the ball of his foot and gracefully stood on both feet.

Jareth rolled his eyes.  

John was closer to the dais.  Flora was walking towards them.  John spun Khloris out of his arms and directly into Flora’s.  They lost themselves in the crowd, giggling. John sashayed through the throng of dancers, dodging bodies and sweeping skirts.

Sherlock and Jareth were engaged in a staring contest.  Neither of them saw John.

The unseen orchestra changed the mood of the room.  They began to play La Cumparsita.

John jumped onto the dais next to Sherlock. Jareth stood quickly, his dark haired ladies scattered like startled crows and regrouped themselves behind the throne.

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up above his mask line.

“May I have this dance?” John bowed his head.

“Do you tango, John?”

“I’ll do anything if you lead me.”

A sly smile turned up one corner of his mouth. He pulled John closer, lifting his right arm up, placing his left hand on his back. “Slide your arm under mine and rest your hand under my scapula,” Sherlock whispered. Knees bent, thighs touching, Sherlock rubbed his nose along the side of John’s. “I hope this is okay.”

“Don’t let go, Sherlock.” A rush of emotion choked his voice.

Sherlock moved them in a circle around the dais.  His thighs stayed pressed against John’s. A sapphire on his coat snagged a tassel on his epaulet. John would never remember how they moved, or how he knew what Sherlock’s body was telling him to do.  The magic of the goblin kingdom, the fantasy of the ballroom, had somehow been made perfect and logical in Sherlock’s arms.  Sherlock slid his left arm to the back of John’s head, and bent him backward over his knee.  John’s hand rested on Sherlock’s right elbow.  His right leg straight, left knee bent, he felt suspended in mid air in the dip.  Sherlock leaned forward, placing a kiss between the brass buttons of his scarlet jacket.

“Enough!” Jareth hissed, pushing dancers out of his way as he stalked to the dais.

Sherlock up-righted them, staring past the gold mask into John’s eyes. “Have you been safe?”

“Yes,” he was started by the question. “Yes, of course.  You?”

“Locked in a girl’s bedroom. But not mistreated.”  Sherlock sighed.  “Bored. Made me long for Serbia.”

John shook his head and laughed. A grin spread across Sherlock’s face.

“We only have a moment,” he could see Jareth getting closer out of the corner of his eye.

“Okay. What do we do?  How do we get out?”

Jareth was within arms’ reach.  He grabbed for John’s tails.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock held him tightly.

“Wha…” he felt the tug on his coat.

Sherlock held his face firmly between his thumb and forefinger.  “Kiss me, John.”

Their lips met.  

The sound of shattered glass filled their ears.  The look of disappointment on Jareth’s face spun away from them as they were sucked through a swirling vortex of white.  The twins behind the throne transformed into crows.  Some dancers changed from human form into huge brown owls, bright songbirds and ravens; other dancers screamed as the ballroom shifted and dissolved around them.  

“Don’t let go,” Sherlock pressed his mouth to John’s ear.

They were falling.  No more marble dais beneath their feet.  No more music.  The air was filled with shouts and shattering glass, flutterings of wings and cries of birds.  John closed his eyes and pressed  his face into the ruffles of Sherlock’s shirt.

Despite how strongly he kept his arms wrapped around him, John felt Sherlock slipping from him.

“Sherlock!” he cried out.  He opened his eyes and saw nothing but stormy sky above him. He was alone.

He landed on his backside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mouth tasted of sweet, milky tea. The stubble on his face rubbed on John’s. Not like the smooth skin of a woman. Not the taste of Mary’s lipstick and coffee. This kiss was electricity and contentment; passion and satisfaction. This was the kiss that should have happened every day for the last several years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malbay is a real company. I love the internet.

Chapter 8

He expected to feel every bone in his body shatter from the impact. He expected to be dead.  Or at least so broken that he wished for death.

He was not expecting to find himself lying on a heap of rubbish.  John quickly assessed himself.  Button down shirt, trousers, shoes - he was in  his clothes again.  His jumper was still missing.  No broken bones, no sprained ligaments.  He looked around. There were heaps of rubbish for quite a ways. To the west, where the sun was setting, and the south he could see walls.  Perhaps he was at  Malbay site.  John sighed.  He had probably been out for a pint with Lestrade, had too many, and somehow been picked up by a lorry and left in a skip at a Malbay Waste yard.  He slid down the pile, expecting to see the red skips and white trucks with bold lettering at any moment.

He leaned a hand out to steady himself as he jumped the last few feet to the ground.

“Ugh!  Gerroff my back!”

The pile of rubbish he leaned on turned around.  Beneath it was an old woman; stringy unwashed blonde hair, grey skin deeply wrinkled.  She looked as if she had been poorly carved out of stone, or an aged stump of wood. She had one tooth in her bottom jaw.  It jutted out over her upper lip.

“Oh, I’m… uh… bugger,” John went to rub his head, looked at his hand that had just touched her back, and wiped it on his trouser leg instead.   _Not a Malbay Waste Disposal yard._

“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” she snapped.

“I was, actually.”  John tipped his head sideways.  “I am sorry, ma’am.  Can you tell me, where am I?”

The junk lady harrumphed.  “How can you look where you’re goin’ if you don’t know where you’re goin’?”

“I…” John forgot his dirty hand and rubbed it over his hair. “I don’t know where I am.  I must have been out with Greg.  Can you tell me how to get home? I am totally lost.  And rather embarrassed actually. If you could just...”

The old woman squinted, looking at him with one eye.  

“I want to go home to Baker Street.”

The old woman nodded, waddling under the weight of her possessions.  “In here, my dear.”

She turned a handle on a wood slat door that looked like it was barely being held together by its rusted nails.

John pushed open the dilapidated door.  Inside was the sitting room at 221B Baker Street. He turned when the door shut behind him.  It was the inside of their door.  A fire crackled on the hearth, creating a warm glow.  Their red carpet was on the floor.  John’s squashy arm chair and round side table looked as if he had just left them. Sherlock’s violin sat in his green leather chair.  He turned to the right.  The yellow spray painted smiley with the bullet hole was still over the sofa.  

Sherlock strolled out of the kitchen, tea cup and saucer in hand.  Dark tartan dressing gown was open over his lounge pants and a crumpled grey tee shirt.

“Oh, hello John.  I asked you an hour ago for a cup of tea.” he looked down into his cup. “I realized about ten minutes ago you weren’t here.  So I made some for myself,” he sipped.  “Kettle is still hot if you fancy a cup.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “You aren’t wearing a jumper or a coat. It’s November, John. Is everything alright?”

“Put that down a moment.” John indicated to the cup and saucer.

Sherlock placed it on the round table. “What’s the matter, John?”

John approached Sherlock, backing him against the wall, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, slightly breathlessly.

“What I should have been doing all along.”  His breath was hot on Sherlock’s neck, hovering an inch above his skin.  He dragged his nose up the length of his neck.  He circled Sherlock’s chin with his nose.  “Shall I?”

Sherlock grinned, half shy, half pleased. “I think you should. Yes.”

“Say my name.” He was half an inch away.

“Yes, John.”

“Mmmm, I love when you say my name.

“Kiss me.”

His mouth tasted of sweet, milky tea.  The stubble on his face rubbed on John’s.  Not like the smooth skin of a woman.  Not the taste of Mary’s lipstick and coffee.  This kiss was electricity and contentment; passion and satisfaction.  This was the kiss that should have happened every day for the last several years.

John pulled back, resting his nose against Sherlock’s.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Sorry for not snogging  you before now.”

Full pouty lips curled into a bedroom smile. “Kiss me again and make up for lost time.”

John kissed him between words. “This isn’t just a kiss for me, Sherlock.  This is emotion. I have feelings for you. This goes against the pure cold reason you hold above all things.”

Sherlock chortled throatily.  “Throwing my words back at me?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” John hummed against his neck.

“Then know, John, that I have been painfully aware of your beauty for some time. And not only did I comprehend, but I was jealous of your happiness with Mary.”

“Never as happy as I am with you.”

“You are still the bravest and kindest and wisest man I have ever had the privilege to know,” his words were swallowed by John in a kiss.  He grabbed John’s face and stared down into his eyes. “I meant it then, and I mean it now.  I will never let you down.  And, if you’ll have me, we have a lifetime ahead for me to prove that.”

“I’d like that.  Very much.”

Sherlock held his face: pupils dilated, eyebrows raised slightly, nostrils flared, that smile that made John’s insides wobble. He smiled, breathing in  John, before kissing him again. Sherlock’s hands began to undo his buttons. John pulled the dressing gown to the floor.  Sherlock tugged at the shirt, forgetting the cuffs had buttons.  One pinged off the mirror above the mantle.  John chuckled, unfastening the button on the other sleeve.  Tee shirts were tossed aside. Naked torsos pressed against one another. Sherlock dragged the back of his fingers up from John’s navel to his his collar bone.  John sighed.

John’s fingers tangled themselves in Sherlock’s dark curls. They were as soft as he had imagined. He let out a little sigh as he continued to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock grabbed his ass with both hands, lifting him onto his toes, pressing him into the erection his lounge pants were barely concealing.

“I’ve never… before…” John stammered.

“I have,” Sherlock’s eyes were wide.  “We don’t have to… not yet.” He traced the line of John’s ear.

“I want to…” he leaned his face into Sherlock’s palm.

“Do you trust me, John?” his deep voice was barely above a whisper.

“Of course I do.”

“Let me lead.”  Sherlock leaned his head in to kiss him, giving himself a bit of space to slide his lounge pants to his feet.  He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  He stood there, in the firelight fully naked, erection brushing against John’s belly.

“You are amazing,” John said breathily.

“You said that when we first met.”  He traced one finger over John’s eyebrows, down his cheek.  He traced his collarbone out to his shoulder.

“It’s true.  I just didn’t know how amazing.” John shuddered as Sherlock’s fingertips danced lightly over the inside of his arm.

“Hmm,” he smiled smugly.  “I will take my time proving it to you. I’d like to see if you are as magnificent in the flesh as I’ve imagined.” Sherlock traced his finger across John’s belt line.  He took John’s wide-eyed expectant look as permission.  Nimble fingers deftly unbuckled and unzipped.  He slid his hands inside the waist bands of trousers and pants, letting his fingers memorize the sensation of John’s tender skin.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, slowly pulling John’s trousers down.  The sensation of Sherlock’s hands and the fabric moving over his hyper sensitive skin made him shudder and moan.  The heat of his mouth moved across the plain of his stomach as he placed tiny kisses along the way. He avoided John’s erection, saving it for later.  Sherlock pressed his lips into his left quad as he shifted the clothes further down. The downy blonde hairs on John’s legs stood on end.  

When his trousers and pants were finally at his ankles, Sherlock leaned back on his heels while John stepped out of his clothes.  Sherlock studied John’s penis.  “It is good to know that my fantasies were correct.  You,” he licked the anterior crest of his left hip bone. “Are,” he licked the other.  “Magnificent.” He looked up at John through dark lashes, question in his eyes.

“Yes,” John sighed.  He reached out to draw Sherlock’s head closer.  

The smirk spread from the center of his mouth, to the corner, to the crinkle of his eye.  Sherlock flicked his tongue across the head of John’s penis, lightly at first.  He licked the foreskin, tracing the head, making John moan. He grabbed John’s bare ass with one hand, while the other gently tickled the blonde hairs at the base of his erection.

“I wasn’t expecting your testicles to be clean shaven.”  He lathed them with his wet tongue.

John moaned louder and nearly felt his knees give out.  

“Makes them more,” he gulped. “Sensitive.”

“Mmmmm… I can see that.”  He took the shaved sac in his mouth, running his tongue between and around the sensitive gonads.

John’s moans and half mumbled words grew louder.  Sherlock pressed him closer to his face, taking in as much of his length as possible.

“I can’t…” John crumpled to his knees.

Sherlock pulled back, eyes full of concern.  “Was it too much?  Have I moved too quickly?  If you aren’t ready…”

“No, you prat,” John slid forward, hooking his legs around Sherlock’s waist.  “I couldn’t stand any longer.  You made my knees give out.”

“Oh.”  His grin was lost in John’s eager kiss.  

They rearranged themselves as John sat in his lap.  Belly to belly, erections trapped between them.  John licked and nibbled his way down Sherlock’s ear and throat, exploring every inch of skin. Sherlock now had both hands on John’s ass.  He moved John’s body against his, driving their hips together. The friction was sending John over the edge.

“Sherlock…” he gasped.  “I’m… oh god, I’m going to come.”

“Come for me, John,” he drove his hips forward slightly, changing the angle for his own benefit. “Come all over me, John.”

“I…” anything else John had planned on saying was lost in a verbal cascade of moaning and gasping.  In his final sputtering release, he could feel the throb of Sherlock’s ejaculation against his belly.

They sat on the red rug on the floor of their flat, naked and holding one another.  John traced lines up and down Sherlock’s back.  Sherlock sighed into John’s shoulder.

“Was that a sigh of happiness I heard?”

A low chuckle was all he received in response.

“I think we made a bit of a mess.  I’ll get us some flannels to wash up.”

John extricated himself from Sherlock’s embrace.  He paused to look down at the chiseled face.  He smiled and cupped his hand against the perfect cheekbone. “Amazing.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together  sexily.  “I haven’t even shagged you properly yet.”

John blushed.  “I’ll get those flannels.”

Naked and sticky, John walked to the bathroom.  He took a look back at Sherlock, still naked and sitting cross-legged on the rug.  They would have to get a steam cleaner in for that spot.  Sherlock looked for all the world like a contented cat who ate the canary.  John winked at him as he turned the doorknob.

A cold rush of air hit John’s naked body.  The scent of rubbish and decay filled his nose.  The grey, wrinkled old woman pushed her way inside.  She tottered under the weight of her belongings, which included some wood chairs and a teddy bear, on her back.  

“There’s nothing out there you want, no sir. Nothing out there.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

“Sherlock?  Sherlock!” his voice was full of panic.  John looked around for his flatmate, but the sitting room was empty.  Only John’s clothes lay scattered on the floor. Did the prat get up and get dressed that quickly?

“Sherlock!”

“What have we here?” the old woman mumbled as she rifled through the desk.  

“Don’t touch those things.  Those are mine and Sherlock’s.” John struggled into his pants. “Sherlock!”

“Hmm…” she rifled through case files with her sausage fingers, ripped nails dragging crime scene photos out of folders.

“Stop that now,” he paused in doing up the flies on his trousers to point at her. “Sherlock!” he shouted again.  

Surely by now Mrs. Hudson would come flying up the stairs demanding to know what the ruckus was about.  Where was Mrs. Hudson?

“Oooo, what’s this?” she said, banging the keys on the laptop.

“Don’t touch,” he grabbed it out of her hands.

She sneered at him and shifted over to the mantle.  She was too short to reach the skull, although she did try to hop up to reach it.  John was surprised none of her belongings slipped off her back. She shrugged and hobbled over to John’s chair.

“What’s this then?” she bent over with much grunting to pick up a book from the floor.

John pulled on his shirts, wondering for a moment why he was missing his jumper. He looked at the small red book in her hands.

He snatched it away, not sure if the book was his, but feeling that she shouldn’t be in his sitting room.  

Caressing the cover as he slipped into his shoes, he traced the gold lettering.  Labyrinth.

“Crap.”

“What’s that dear?” the old woman raised an eyebrow.

“This… this whole… event,” John struggled with the memory of him and Sherlock naked on the rug.  “Was crap. It was a lie. That wasn’t the real Sherlock Holmes.”

The walls began to crumble.  Bricks piled up. Windows smashed and drapes fell.  The mirror over the mantle cracked and shattered on the hearth.  The skull followed it, bouncing before losing its teeth from the impact.  John looked frantically around for an exit.  

“I have to get to Sherlock.”

He scrambled over a pile of brick that looked fairly stable. He pushed himself out of the crumbling ruins of the fake sitting room of 221B Baker Street.  He landed on the hard packed dirt of the junk yard.  The moon was rising. In the light of the rising half moon, John saw the white washed walls of the Goblin City before him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FISH and CHIPS (again, I love the internet) stand for Fighting In Someone's House and Causing Havoc in People's Streets. Stanford Battle Area is a real training facility in the UK.

Chapter 9

Hoggle sat dejectedly at the foot of the throne.  Jareth was irritated beyond words with him.  Jareth was so angry that he decided locking Hoggle in a cell or an oubliette would be too good for him.  So Hoggle was forced to sit at Jareth’s feet every moment of the day and night.  

“You gave him _my_ clothes to wear,” Jareth hissed under his breath for the hundredth time.

“I said I was sorry, though you know I ain’t.”

The king kicked his backside with his boot.

“Ooof.”

“I don’t want your apologies, dwarf.  I want your loyalty.”

Hoggle knew better than to argue with the king.  He was already being punished for helping Sarah solve the labyrinth years ago to save her baby brother.  Having to serve the king instead of being a gardener outside the walls had perks, but it lacked the freedom he loved.  Now he wasn’t even a servant.  He was a footstool and a kicking post.  

A goblin guard dashed into the throne room.  He paused before them, bowing awkwardly.

“Your Highness.”

Jareth arched an eyebrow.

“Your Highness, the gentleman who ate the peach and forgot everything…”

“Yes…”

“He’s scaling the walls of the city.”

“What?”

Hoggle laughed.

“What are you laughing about, Hoghead?”

“I’m laughin’ cos I know he’s a soldier.  He’ll cause destruction to your city. He’s seen worse than what your goblins can give ‘im.”

Jareth elegantly leapt up from his throne.  He grabbed Hoggle by the ear and dragged him from the throne room.  

“Ow!  Gerroff!  Let go!”

“Silence, Higgle.  We are going to visit the prisoner.”

Jareth shot a look at his captain of the guard.  “Send out the troops.  I want him stopped!”

***

John saw the gate of the city and knew that his  decision to use stealth was best.  A ten foot tall armoured goblin stood in the frame of the doors.  An axe leaned against the wall nearby.  He had dodged many bullets, jumped out of the way of moving vehicles, had bombs strapped to him, been beaten and tortured. He did not want to add “chased with impossibly large axe” to the list of dangers he escaped from.  John dragged some broken, but solidly built furniture from the junkyard to the wall of the city. Precariously balanced, he peered over the top of the wall.

Inside the city looked like a blend of the Stanford Battle Area and an Afghan village for tiny people.  Construction was of concrete and brick.  All the streets were paved with beige slabs.  It reminded John of hard-packed sand.  There was no grass.  Some houses had little window boxes of herbs or red geraniums.  The buildings did not look big enough to house humans. Some were tall and thin, towers of stone capped with shingled cone roofs like long mushrooms.  Some were square or tried to be; additions were not built to any sort of codes and stood at odd angles.  

The coast was clear.  John let himself drop to the street.  His shoes echoed a little.  He looked at every nearby window and door. No living creature stirred.  John crept between two houses, keeping low.  The alleys were strewn with straw and chicken droppings.  A few large black hens wandered past him.  He ducked under an open window, pressing himself as close as possible to the wall.  A rope was tied between neighbor’s windows, hung with tiny leggings, tunics and hand knit socks.  

John paused to take a calming breath.  The last time he was in a situation like this he was armed, had a platoon of Fusiliers with him, had radios to communicate to his troops with, and was flushing out the enemy.  He was probably being viewed as the enemy.  What if there were tiny goblin women and children?  If the size of the clothes on the line were an indicator, the residents, even the adults, were very small.

A noise of marching feet and the clink of armour came echoing from a few streets away.  John ducked behind a rain barrel. The sound was still a few streets away, but making its way to the gates of the city. He kept alert, watching every open window and door, before dashing ahead to the next hiding spot.  After several alleys he stopped by an open sewer to better assess his next steps.  The stench of rotten meat and sewage filled his nostrils.  A familiar smell from FISH and CHIPS tactics.  John hoped he would not have to fight in someone’s house here.  The houses all had doors that were too tiny for John to fit through.  He couldn’t imagine they would be tall enough inside for him to stand.  He figured it was too late not to cause havoc in people’s streets.  He was the havoc being hunted by the goblin troops.  

The streets were uneven, rising here, dipping around the next corner.  Cobbled streets became stone stairs.  There did not seem to be a logical layout of the city. There would also be no way to move troops in vehicles or on pack animals through these streets. That gave John some confidence.

The marching was closer.  Through the open windows of an empty house John could see the spiked and beaked helmets making their way towards the front gate of the city.  They were armed with spears and swords, pikes and maces. He moved forward to the edge of the house to get a better street view of the passing troops.  Two stout goblins were pulling a cannon. No evidence of rifles or guns, but they had cannons.  

As the last of the troops passed, and John had to silently chuckle over the two foot tall soldiers in spiked helmets with their furry tails dragging behind them, he crept out from the alley and crossed a main square to a neighborhood closer to the castle.  He passed a fountain. He paused long enough to see the details looked like thirty centimeter images of a dwarf urinating into the pool below.  He shuddered.  John crept up another set of stairs, heading towards the castle.

 

***

“Tell me about your Captain Watson,” Jareth sneered at Sherlock.

Sherlock lay on the narrow bed, ankles crossed over the unicorn that he put back on the bed as a foot rest.  

“Tell me what John is up to now,” he replied casually.

“He is trying to scale the walls of the city. But Hoghead here says the John was a soldier.  What kind of soldier was he?”

Sherlock smirked.  The smirk spread into a smile and he laughed.  “John is a British Army officer and fought in some of the toughest deserts and urban environments you can imagine.  From what I have seen of your little city from my window, John can get through without any problems.  Your ridiculous soldiers are no match for Captain John Watson.”

“How do we stop him?” Jareth demanded.  He strode up to the bed and kicked the frame.  

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Petulant child,” he chided.  

Jareth leaned over Sherlock, faces inches apart.  

“Arrogant sod,” Sherlock challenged him, staring into his mismatched eyes.

“I want John Watson.  He will be mine. But he must give you to me so I can turn you into a goblin.”

Sherlock’s face lost all composure.  He guffawed.  “Honestly?  You think John will give me up?”  Sherlock slid from beneath the goblin king to sit up.  They stood face one another, cocked eyebrow to cocked eyebrow.  “Do you remember your little _party?_  You saw us together.  John is loyal and brave.  And he loves me.  Nothing, not marriage to a woman, not death - mine or theirs - no terrorist, or madman can come between us. They have all tried.  And,” Sherlock straightened the lapel of his jacket, “they have all failed. So go back to your throne room.  Play with your goblins and your,” he looked down at Hoggle who had been cowering by the door the entire time, “dwarves.  Forget about John.  Forget about me.  He will arrive and we will escape.”

Jareth sneered.  “So be it. Hoggle!” he snapped.  Hoggle jumped.  “Take the prisoner to the hall of mirrors.  He will await his handsome captain there.”

 

***

John hid behind a shed to watch another platoon of goblin soldiers march past.  Some rode on green dragons about three feet tall.  They hopped down the stone stairs as they made their way down to the city gates.  Not the most effective steeds.

He was close to the doors of the castle.  Aside from the soldiers who marched loudly through the quiet city, and were easy to avoid, the only living creatures John saw were the chickens that roamed the streets like stray dogs.

The steps up to the castle doors were exposed.  There was no cover. John sat on his haunches against a wall, listening carefully for the footsteps of more goblin guards.  All he could hear was the scratching and clucking of some hens and the small army haphazardly attempting to organize themselves down at the city gate, awaiting the onslaught of one.

Quietly, John ascended the granite steps.  The large white doors were slightly ajar, as if the last goblin soldier forgot to close it behind him.  As he opened it enough for himself to fit through, it creaked loudly, echoing around the huge foyer.  He winced.  Flattening against the wall, sticking to the shadows, he waited for the sound to alert more guards.  There were no movements. No clanging of armor and chainmail, not clanking of spears and swords.  A pair of ravens flew across the high ceiling and alighted upon a chandelier.  

Feeling confident that the goblin king had sent out all his soldiers to the front lines, John dashed up the stairs to the left.  He dodged the detritus scattered on the steps; bits of armour, a boot, chicken feathers, a broken mace.  High above the ravens soared across the vaulted ceiling.  John felt they were familiar somehow.  At a landing he peered into a room.  The ravens squaked at him, perched upon the lintel.  John pulled back and walked on to the next door.  He looked back at the birds.  They blinked at him in unison.  

He pushed the doors inward.

The throne room was empty.  Jareth’s throne had a fur draped carelessly over it.  Empty pewter chalices lay on their sides at the foot of it. An empty wine bottle rolled under the throne. More chickens wandered past. One stopped to peck at the remains of a meal on a pewter plate.

The ravens glided into the room, alighting on the rounded back of the throne.

John saw entrances to the left and right of the dais.  He headed towards the left.  The ravens squaked.  He looked over his shoulder at them.  One raven was hopping along the back of the throne towards the right passageway.

“I take that to mean you want me to go up that way?”

The reply was a low ‘caw’.

“Is that the way to Sherlock?”

The birds blinked at him.

“Oh God,” he sighed.  He looked up at the ceiling.  “I’m talking to bloody birds.”

The raven on the right kept moving towards the passage. It jumped down and bobbed its way closer.

“Alright, alright.  Who am I to doubt blackbirds who give directions?”

The birds hopped on the floor behind him.

***

Jareth walked circles around Sherlock, assessing him.  Hoggle had dressed the detective in charcoal riding pants, a white tunic open to the the navel, and a garnet velvet cape. He felt the make-up had been a bit excessive.  Again. At least this time all the dwarf’s work with eyeshadow wasn’t hidden under a mask. Sherlock would not meet Jareth’s eyes.  He looked up at the ceiling that was either the night sky or painted to look like it.  He looked at the blue-black marble floor flecked with silver sparkles.  The walls around them were mirrored.  A hundred bored looking Sherlocks gazed lazily around the room.  A hundred goblin kings stalked hungrily around them.

The ceiling was probably a mirror reflecting the floor.

“Are you satisfied with playing dress up?” Sherlock sighed in a bored tone. “Am I pretty enough for you?”  He batted his eyelashes.  

“Silence,” the goblin king hissed.

Sherlock huffed and began to fuss with his clothes. He picked off bits of lint. He smoothed out the nap of the velvet. He fluffed the frills at the open front of his shirt.  The outline of his sternum stood out under his moon-pale skin. He wondered if this shirt would look better on him if he had chest hair.

“Where are we?”

Jareth paused in his vulture-like circling.  “We are at the center of the Hall of Mirrors.”

“Is this where you plan on having some sort of American Western showdown with John?”

“This is where Captain Watson will be faced with the decision of choosing between you,” he poked a gloved finger to Sherlock’s bare chest. “and me.”

“Do you really think, after the ball, that John would choose you?” Sherlock removed his finger from his chest as if he were picking up something dirty.  He wiped his fingers on his trousers.  “He scorned you.”

Jareth shook out his long blonde hair as he laughed. “Oh, dear detective. Poor, delusional Mr. Holmes,” he twirled one of Sherlock’s curls around his finger. “John does not remember the ball.”

Sherlock felt as if he had been punched in the gut.  He took a breath through his nose, raising his shoulders, then rolling them back as he exhaled. The image of John in those black trousers and the red captain’s jacket, the gold mask over his eyes; the way the candle light played with the shades of blonde and brown and grey in his hair; the way he pressed his body against Sherlock’s when they danced.  The way John kissed him…

“I believe in John Watson.  He has never let me down.  When faced with choices between right and wrong, between what is easy and what is difficult, John has always chosen the right, the difficult.  He is loyal.  I trust in his loyalty to our friendship.”

“Is that all he is to you, Mister Holmes?  A friend?” he sneered.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the left, his stare boring into the goblin king’s head.  

“For many years now he has been my constant companion. He is my only friend. I am his best friend. Any romantic or sexual interest I have in John Watson is irrelevant.”

“No, Mister Holmes.  It is not irrelevant.” Jareth rested his fists on his hips. “It is precisely why you are here.”

***

The ravens grew tired of walking behind John.  They took flight.  John had not heard them behind him. The rush of wings startled him.  One bird flew ahead.  The other sat on a window ledge. The nagging feeling that he had seen these birds before came back, hitting him in his stomach, making him anxious.  He felt there was something he should remember about them.

He walked along the stone corridor, sound of his steps echoing.  He would save Sherlock from the Goblin King.  Then what?  Would they wake up from this hallucination back in the sitting room at Baker Street?  Was this a hallucination?  It certainly didn’t feel that way anymore. No matter how odd the next creature he met, they seemed real.  He could not think of a single story or film or television program from his childhood that would make his brain create the people, the creatures, the city. None of his PTSD nightmares were this surreal.  Everything was solid.  There were scents and flavors.  There were warm bodies and music.

Music?

John tipped his head as if listening more intently.  The ravens were silent as well.

There was violin music coming from somewhere ahead.  It echoed and soared.  It bounced off walls and ceilings.  It sounded like a pleading voice.  

He ran.

He tried to focus on the music, but the pounding of his feet on stone and his heart in his ears kept drowning it out.  He paused at a fork in the corridor. Both paths were dark.  The ravens swooped in front of him at the left entrance.  They swirled and danced like eagles riding a thermal.  The music changed to Brahms Waltz for Violin.  The anxiety came back to his belly.  Why should a waltz make him anxious?  Sherlock played them often. The black birds spiraled up and down in a column in time to the music, reminding John of women in fancy dress.

The birds broke free of their dance and soared ahead.

The path was dark, the music was louder, closer.  John had to slow his steps and felt the way ahead with his hands against the wall.  

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

Sherlock’s words replayed in his mind.  This whole hallucination… dream… adventure was improbable.  It felt real.  Since, he decided, it was real and Hoggle had told him it wasn’t a dream, then what was he to do about his feelings for Sherlock when they got back to their reality?  Would he tell him?  

It was not impossible for John to have romantic and sexual feelings for Sherlock.  John had just always presumed they were both straight. Any notion that their friendship could lead to more had been dismissed because Sherlock was married to his work, and John wasn’t gay.  Why would John ever entertain romantic feelings towards his flatmate and best friend?  

It was not improbable.

He kicked a pebble and heard it bounce away in the darkness.  There were shadows, faint shafts of light. He could see his hands before him.

If Sherlock was his best mate, why did John feel the way he did?  As a boy he had other boys who were his friends.  His best mate, Andrew, was like a brother to him.  At university he had male friends.  In his platoon they learned what it was like to be part of a brotherhood - caring for one another, protecting one another, the fighting, the bonding, the sadness, the joys, the camaraderie only war can forge between strangers to make them brothers. These were men who you wanted to hug, pat on the back, punch on the shoulder and laugh with.  When Mike introduced them, there was an instant chemistry. John thought it was the beginning of a new friendship.  The feelings became more intimate.  The time they spent together was not just cerebral.  They were domestic.  Life and death situations, breaking the law to solve crimes, saving one another’s lives; quiet moments having take away, watching crap telly late at night, random text messages that meant ‘I miss you’ but read ‘I’m bored’.  Sherlock was a man he wanted to hug, snuggle, and sleep beside.

He stopped. Light ahead was brighter. The music shifted from a waltz to something more familiar. One of Sherlock’s compositions.

It was the truth.

All of it.

He moved ahead, turning a corner.

The light was blinding after the darkness of the corridor.  The source of the light was not obvious.   John shielded his eyes.  The dark floor sparkled.  The high ceiling above looked like a moonless midnight full of stars.  Every wall was a mirror.  Hundreds of Johns shielded their eyes, taking in what they could of the room, scanning for the violinist.

The ravens flew in softly and landed at his feet. Before his eyes they transformed into women in fancy dress: sleek ebony hair, grey dresses black corsets, bird beaked masks. They sat on the floor, blinking up quizzically at him.  John gasped. The pit of anxiety in his belly turned into memory.  

“Sherlock!”

_May I have this dance?_

_I’ll do anything if you lead me._

_Don’t let me go._

The mirror room was a maze.  The room curved.  Convex mirrors distorted his image back at him.  He turned around to see the raven women still on the floor watching him.  And he saw their reflections watching themselves, watching hundreds of him.

_Kiss me, John._

“Sherlock!”  

The memory of the ball came flooding back. How had he forgotten that?  It had been magnificent with the dancers in their finery, the masks, the chandeliers, the music, and his first kiss with Sherlock.  Not the frottage fantasy that dissolved into a nightmare with the junk lady at the false sitting room of their flat, but a real kiss. A kiss with real Sherlock.

John looked at the cuff of his shirt.  The button was missing. It had pinged off the mirror in the sitting room. It was not on his cuff.

Jareth’s reflection appeared. John spun around, looking for the man.  The reflection smirked, then vanished.  

Jareth had kissed him as well.  Flora was correct - the Goblin King wanted John.  He was jealous of Sherlock.  

_I would have thought **you** were more his type._

A barn owl glided noiselessly overhead. The raven women cawed softly in semi-human voices.  

“Tango!” John shouted.  “Sherlock?  Play me a tango!”

The squeak of the bow being lifted off the strings echoed. From somewhere in the maze of mirrors John heard a whispered baritone. “He remembers.”

The barn owl hissed.

John allowed himself a smile. He heard Sherlock’s voice.

“I remember, Sherlock!  Play a tango.  I’m here!  I’m coming!”

The owl let out  piercing territorial screeches that ended in a little squeaks.

The staccato rhythm bounced differently off the walls.  John closed his eyes.  He inhaled.  To the left?  He exhaled.  The music was definitely coming from somewhere to his left.

The goblin king appeared again. His face was strained, shadows under his eyes. He wasn’t there.  It was just his reflection.  John walked on, slapping his palm against the face of every reflection of Jareth he passed.

John stopped short.  

Every wall of this room showed him Sherlock.  His slender frame dressed in more of the goblin king’s clothes.  The dark pants were flatteringly snug over his long thighs.  The red velvet cape, so dark it was nearly black, was thrown behind him, freeing his arms as he played. His curls were teased into a dark waterfall held in impossible shape with something that made his hair shine.  No mask this time.  Was that eyeshadow?  John approached the nearest image. He reached up a finger to trace his flatmate’s eyebrow. Just cold glass.  He pressed his forehead to the image, allowing himself a sigh, before turning towards the center of the room.

Twelve images of Sherlock played violin.  Twelve images of John looked around for the man.  John alone stood in the room.  Anger boiled inside him.  He had come too far to not win.  He had come to far to give up. He rolled his shoulders back and  held his head high.

“Which one is the real you?  Where are you?”

The dark haired images turned sideways and looked down the neck and scroll at John. “Inside,” he mouthed the word.

Inside.

Inside the mirrors.

John looked around for something to break the mirrors with.  There was no furniture.  There was nothing except John, his mobile, his flat keys and the red book in his back pocket. Nothing hard enough to smash glass with.

“Save me, John,” the baritone whisper was not a twelve part harmony.  It came from one direction, one mirror.  John spun towards the voice.

“May I have this dance?” John swallowed hard. The flurry of emotions that bubbled in his gut and surged through his body on an adrenaline rush was hot and powerful.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.  The smile in his eyes said _Well done, John. Yes._

“Will you let me lead you?” he continued to play, stroking the bow across the strings.

His voice was molten chocolate, dark and burning, delicious and irresistible.  It fed on the flush of adrenaline coursing through John’s body.

“I always have, Sherlock. Just…” he paused for breath,  “don’t let me go.”

Sherlock let the violin fall away from his chin. Instrument and bow in one hand, he reached out the other.  John reached his hand forward, banging his fingers on the glass.

“NO!” He let out a guttural war cry. His fingers curled into a fist.  The anger, frustration, brief victory, affection and survival instinct rushing inside him drove his fist through the mirror.

All around him, suspended in mid-air, were sheets of broken mirrors.  Some were cracked, some were tiny, pointed shards, all floated as if the air were water.  All reflected John’s image back at him.

Sherlock was gone.   

Soft footsteps approached.  The goblin king wove his way through mirror shards.  His rockstar hair was styled, his eye makeup was gold.  He looked pale, defeated.  He did not break eye contact with John.  Jareth wore white and dove grey, with a feathered cape on his shoulders.  

“Where is Sherlock?”

“John, beware.  I have been patient with you until now, but I can become unreasonable.”

“Patient?  How?”

“I have given you opportunities to go back to your heteronormative ways.  I have attempted to fulfill fantasies I found in your mind.  I have tried to give you what you wanted.”

“If you had looked into my heart you would have done better,” he quipped. “Then you would have seen what it is I want.”

“Your heart?” Jareth scoffed.

“My heart.  My mind is filled with lots of things.  But my heart, aside from a good Thai curry, only wants one thing - William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

The goblin king circled John as if he were prey.  His eyes were pleading.

“Fear me.” He stopped.  “Love me.” He reached out a gloved hand to cup John’s jaw. “Obey me.” He caressed John’s cheek with his thumb.  “And I will give you _everything_ in your heart.”  He pulled a crystal ball out of the air with his free hand, presenting it to John on his fingertips.

“Obey you?  You don’t ruddy know what love is if you think you need someone to _obey_ you.”  John stepped back from Jarth and ran both hands over his head.  “I may have spent years following Sherlock Holmes, put up with his insults to my intelligence, made excuses for his behavior to clients and the Met, but not one time did he expect me to _obey_ him.”

Jareth held out the crystal.  John could see tiny images of himself and the king dancing. He put his hands on his low back.  His fingers brushed against the small red book in his back pocket. Pulling it out,  he waved it at his captor.

“Words.  You need the bloody words,” he flipped the book open to a page he had dog eared in the woods. “No, I’m not a little girl.” He slipped the book back into this pocket.  “These shall be my words.”

"Through the most ridiculous encounters I've ever seen and hardships..." John remembered the nymphs fondly for a moment. "Well, you know... I have fought my way here to the castle, through that _insane_ goblin city. Who bloody thought of a city full of goblins anyway?"

Jareth's right eyebrow shot up quizzically.

"Damn... the words... To take back the man you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours... ruddy hell..." John ran a shaking hand over his head and smoothed his fringe down over his brow. "No. No. My will is stronger than yours. I've been to war. I've fought at Sherlock's side for years now. I've lost my wife and daughter. I am not about to lose the man I love to some... some... glittery fop in a drug induced fantasy. I am John Watson, I am in love with Sherlock Holmes, and I do what I want, so fuck you!"

Jareth looked lost.  

"Oh yeah," John stalked up to the Goblin King and pointed his index finger into his chest. "You. Have. No Power. Over. Me."

Defeated, Jareth threw the crystal ball into the air. His feathered cloak became wings.  He transformed into the barn owl.  The raven twins swooped in, circling the owl.  They all headed up and into the night sky.

The broken mirrors disappeared.  The floor became a red area rug. Windows and a fireplace appeared.  A green leather chair sat facing a tartan chair, tea tray on the round table.  The skull sat, unbroken, on the mantle. The drapes fluttered in the cold November air.  John pulled the windows shut.

“John?”

He spun  around quickly.  Sherlock was standing by their closed door, Belstaff on, blue scarf party undone at his neck, looking the way he did before the world went sideways.

John couldn’t breathe.

“John?” there was an edge of concern in his voice.

His lungs worked.  His voice did not.  A lump filled his throat.

“John?” Sherlock demanded.  He took a step towards him.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he choked on the words, rushing and falling across the short distance into his arms.

Sherlock’s back was ramrod straight. He awkwardly patted the heaving shoulders of his flatmate.

“John?”  His voice was low and soothing. He could feel John sobbing against his chest.  “John, it’s over.  We’re home.”

“Just hold me, you git.” The words were muffled against the plum silk shirt.  He was certain John was getting tears and snot all over it.  And he did not care.

Something inside Sherlock melted.  He wrapped his long arms around the man before him. They were both wrapped in the long coat.  John was missing his jumper.  Like the night they killed Moriarty, Sherlock pressed his lips to the short dark blonde hair on his head.

“We played along.  It wasn’t a hallucination.  It wasn’t a dream.  It…” Sherlock kissed his head between each word.

“It was a bloody nightmare.” John hiccuped.

“Not all of it, surely.” Sherlock ran a hand up and down John’s spine.  John relaxed, melting under the tender caresses.

“What do you remember?” He spoke into his chest. He didn’t want to leave his arms. He breathed in the scent of Sherlock’s body, reveled in the way it felt to be in his arms.

“All of it.  I was kept in a cell decorated like a young girl’s bedroom.  There was a large nosed dwarf, a self obsessed twat in tight pants, and a very handsome army captain at the ball.”

John looked up.  His eyelashes were dark with tears.  Sherlock loosened his embrace, allowing John to stand at his full height.  He kept one hand lingering on his scarred shoulder, tracing little patterns across his scapula.

“The dwarf,” John reached into his trouser pocket.  He stepped back, and took Sherlock’s sleeve. He had maintained that he hated cuff links and only owned shirts that had button cuffs.  But they had been invited to a party at the palace for the New Year’s Honors List, and had to wear tuxedos. John had surprised him with the engraved silver cufflinks.  Suddenly Sherlock only owned shirts without button cuffs. John clipped the silver rectangle in place. “The sodding dwarf had this on him.”

Sherlock adjusted his sleeves.  “It was the best way to get a message to you, John.  I had to tell you I was fine.”

“It worked.”

“You found me.” He grinned.  A blush crept up his long white neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Are you blushing, Holmes?”

He averted his eyes.

“No.  Don’t go looking all proper with your cheekbones and your disinterested eyes,” John hooked a knuckle under his chin, tipping his face towards him.  “You said I was yours.”

“Did I?” His cheeks went from pink to red.

“You never said you could tango.”

“You never said you improved your waltz.”

“You told me not to let go.”

Sherlock assessed the few feet between them. “You have not done as instructed.”

John stepped towards him, placed a hand upon the tear stained spot on his chest, and pushed him against the door.  He stood on tip toes, tugged the scarf off and tossed it aside.  Dragging his nose up the length of Sherlock’s pale neck, he inhaled.  Nicotine, tea, shampoo - the scents of his flatmate.  

“John, I…”

“Shut up.” He pressed his lips against his jugular.

“But I want you to kiss me.”

***

“Boys?”  Mrs. Hudson called out as she opened the door. She struggled with a few bags of shopping. “While I was out at the market I picked up some of the biscuits you boys like.  They were on sale.  I thought they might cheer… John… oh…”

The Belstaff was in heap on the floor. Shoes were kicked in different directions.  John lay on the sofa, his shirt unbuttoned, belt unbuckled, Sherlock’s hand in his trousers.  John’s hands were tangled in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock hovered above him, balanced on one arm.  

‘Hnnnnf,” John moaned into his mouth.

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock agreed.

“Well, it’s about bloody time,” Mrs. Hudson said.  She placed the bags on the kitchen table.  Before she shut the flat door behind her, she watched them for a moment. “Good for you, boys.”  

The door clicked softly closed.

“About bloody time.”


End file.
